


Home Is Not A Place

by Pyrone, TheNevemore



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aged-Down Tony Stark, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Canonical Character Death, Depressed Steve Rogers, Drugs, Emotional Infidelity, Emotional Manipulation, Epistolary, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Letters, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Tony Stark is Howard's Grandson, Ty is a dick, World War II, magical mailbox, not between stony, perceived infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 109,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrone/pseuds/Pyrone, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNevemore/pseuds/TheNevemore
Summary: When Tony Stark starts getting letters from a dead man, his comfortable life as a billionaire playboy begins to fall to pieces. But his life is not the only one coming undone. Steve Rogers is a starving artist in Brooklyn, trying to scrape by as best he can in a time when being homosexual was illegal. As time is running out, with war and death looming on the horizon, they fall in love… but for how long?
Relationships: Michael Bech/Arnie Roth, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Tiberius Stone
Comments: 130
Kudos: 184





	1. From Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the very long ride. Nev was inspired by watching the Lake House, so if you feel that sense of deja vu...it's there. We did our best to make this historically correct for both boys. If you like it, be sure to let us know!
> 
> Thanks to Talisav for beta reading and Anoo for cheer reading. Y'all are the best!

If turning twenty-one had been a disappointment to Tony Stark, then twenty-two was an absolute bore. He had everything a man his age was supposed to want: influence, power, money. At the snap of his fingers, a jet would be ready to fly him anywhere in the world, where he could party the days away in whatever fashion a young man could possibly imagine. And he was never short on company. Whether it was handsome models, beautiful actresses, ingenious scientists, or calculating CEOs, Tony always found someone (or several someones) to entertain him when he had a need for it. 

But it was a hollow sort of pleasure that had quickly burned out of his system. Because, in the cold morning light, the people were always less beautiful than they had been the night before and the easiness of the booze had burned out of his system. The emptiness of his life always left him feeling unsteady, like he was a sailor coming back to land for the first time in months. 

His mornings were icy sheets and throbbing headaches; fragile desire and empty promises. After hurrying whoever he had brought home out the door, Tony would take a shower and crawl into whatever outfit was closest at hand. He would then stagger through his day, squinting at life from behind his sunglasses, until he rinsed and repeated the previous night’s events. Tony hated to admit it, but it was just … boring. That was without even going into how Jarvis felt about the behavior - the disapproval clear on his face every time Tony stumbled into the kitchen each morning, hair still dripping wet because he couldn’t bother to dry it.

So, rather than the lavish, brutal party from the year before, Tony settled on celebrating his birthday with a more intimate get-together. Just him, Rhodey, Pepper, and Jarvis. The way it was meant to be, except for the still painful absence of Ana at Jarvis’ side. Two years later, and the grief still felt so raw. 

“Got to admit, Tones,” Rhodey proclaimed, all but swanning into the kitchen, “this is way more my speed than that noise from last year.” He dropped his gift to Tony on the counter, causing the contents to make a muffled clang. 

“Aw, honeybear, you brought me something?” Tony immediately moved to snoop at the package; his fingers got smacked when he tried to peek between the folds of the wrapping paper. “Ouch! But it’s mine! I want to see what you brought me.” He affected his best pout, which earned him Rhodey’s infamous blank stare.

“Anthony, I believe Mister Rhodes intends for you to wait to open your present,” Jarvis drawled. “Until after dinner and cake.”

Tony scrunched his face like he was even thinking of arguing with them. “Yeah okay, I can work with having food first,” Tony said with a little smile. The meal, of course, was absolutely amazing. The cake, delectable. Tony patted his stomach before they moved to the living room nearest to the kitchen. “So, gift time?” he asked as they walked. 

Pepper was a little quiet so far - thoughtful as she held the box with her gift. A small smile tugged her lips. “Sure, Mr. Stark,” she teased softly. “For once, everything actually is all about you.”

They sat around on the posh furniture Jarvis had personally selected last year (replacing what had been damaged by the awful party Ty had thrown), and Tony felt ridiculously like royalty holding court. Rhodey and Pepper were settled together in the loveseat while Jarvis sat, legs neatly crossed, in one of the wingback chairs. Tony, meanwhile, had the entire sofa to himself, with his gifts spread out on the coffee table in front of him. 

Tony examined the respective gifts with a critical eye. He could see each of his loved ones reflected in the packaging. Pepper had used an understated matte blue paper, which was deceiving in its simplicity. Only the presence of the silver ribbon managed to belie that the gift was likely far more intricate a gift than it seemed. Tony’s eyes then fell on the box Rhodey had brought, which was wrapped in goofy-looking wrapping paper with rocket ships and stars. The brunet wasn’t going to say a word about it. 

“It was left-over from my nephew’s gifts,” Rhodey said firmly. Tony bit his lip; like Tony, would be able to stop himself from buying fighter jet wrapping paper if he were to be in a place that sold such a thing. And use it on every gift he would give Rhodey while the roll lasted.

And then there was Jarvis’s gift. It was wrapped in a paper decorated with a subtle lavender floral pattern - something Tony remembered Ana picking. She had said it reminded her of lilacs in the garden. Even now, her favourite flowers were growing thick and lovely in the garden, surrounding the bench she had liked to sit on in the afternoon sunshine. Seeing the paper was like receiving a kiss on the cheek from her memory; a gentle reminder that she was still so special to them, even years after her passing.

Reaching down, Tony selected the gift from Jarvis and just … stared at it for several moments. Finally lifting the corner on the tape, Tony opened the ends and let the box slide out onto his lap. His jaw hung slack as he saw the white lacquered box, and his hands began to shake as he traced the edges of the box reverently. He remembered this box. Tony remembered sitting in the Jarvises’ quarters as he watched Ana pull this box from her desk drawer. For a moment Tony feels as if he’s seeing it in double as he opens the box to see everything as she left it. The Conklin pen in its case sitting in a sectioned-off portion of the kit. Her paper stacked tidily in one compartment, and her little pad of sticky notes in another little section. And a section for personal cards. A portion of the kit still held the tightly sealed bottle of ink. “Jarvis,” Tony whispered, tracing his thumbs along the kit to feel the velvet lining. He felt his chest flutter and sniffed for a moment, trying to hold back the tears. “This was Ana’s.”

“And now it’s yours. She knew how you loved watching her write. There are instructions in there for refilling the ink, though I know you watched her avidly. There are also instructions for ordering similar papers to what she has. She would have wanted you to have this. I have no use for it,” Jarvis said softly, fondly if Tony was being really honest. Tony opened the case to look at the pen: vintage green and black spattering in a beautiful pattern that led to the sturdy nib. 

“I don’t know how to write with this. I’m going to break it,” Tony said around the lump forming in his throat. Tony ran his fingers along the body of the pen as if it would shatter under his fingers. Rising from their place on the loveseat, Pepper and Rhodey moved to wrap Tony in a hug. Leaning into their warmth, the brunet tried to blink away the tears that had begun to gather in his eyes. 

“No, you won’t,” Rhodey said firmly. 

Jarvis leaned over and reached into the pen case, lifting the lining to show four more of the pen nibs. “It will not be the first time that’s happened. I can teach you as well. I might not have my wife’s talent for it, but I can teach and have decent penmanship,” Jarvis explained with a little bit of straightening his posture. He also lifted the lining a touch more to reveal a folded sheet of paper. “That also shows how to replace the nibs should you need it.” 

Tony felt the adrenaline slowly start to simmer down, the thoughts coming back down to a good baseline for him. He will be okay, he reminded himself. “Thank you, Jarvis,” Tony was finally able to say as Jarvis settled the fabric back in place. 

“Happy Birthday, Tony,” Jarvis said with a prim nod and a small smile. 

Pepper then snagged her gift off the table and gave it a tempting wiggle. “Mine next?” she said, smiling softly. Tony carefully sat Ana’s writing set back on the coffee table before accepting the package from Pepper. Tugging off the ribbon, he draped it over Dum-E’s arm, making the robot beep enthusiastically at the new decoration. Then, feeling a bit more energized, Tony ripped through the blue paper to reveal the contents of the gift. He grinned widely at the multitude of boxes and toys stacked neatly inside. “Thank you. This is going to actually make phone meetings doable,” Tony grins as he pulls out the puzzle box, giving it a wiggle as he looked at all the other desk toys. 

“Guess it’s my turn,” Rhodey griped. “No laughing at the wrapping paper, you hooligan. Or else I’m taking my gift back.”

“You know I love it. Bring it here, honey bear.” Tony grinned, holding his hands out and wriggling his fingers. He unwrapped it carefully, managing to do no damage to the paper; it needed to be preserved for posterity. Maybe, if he managed to remember, he could wrap Rhodey’s birthday gift in it when October rolled around. The item inside, however, was not something he recognized. The box was plain cardboard, only the stamp on the side of it identifying it as from the Brooklyn Museum. But what was the most peculiar was the scribbled handwriting underneath the stamp that read “unusable donation.” Baffled, Tony opened the box and stared uncomprehendingly at the contents. 

“What is this?” Tony asked, looking at it frowning. 

“Oh, you are going to love this,” Rhodey said, rubbing his hands together and leaning in conspiratorially. “Back in the 30s and 40s, being homosexual was illegal. So, they had to get creative in how to keep in contact, right? These types of boxes were a thing in the gay underground that would help you send letters and get letters from other like-minded guys. Y’know, secret meetups and love letters. A friend of a friend who works at the museum talked about how they got this in but they couldn’t put it in any of the exhibits properly. So basically I bought it off them, and now it’s yours,” Rhodey explained with a grin. 

Tony stared a moment, “So you’re telling me, this is like a precursor to those magazines with the coded phrases and abbreviations for gay guys,” Tony looked down at the little black mailbox and grinned. “That. Is. Incredible. I love it.”

Jarvis quietly bid them all goodnight before moving to clean the kitchen, and it’s with that the evening moved down into the living room attached to Tony’s lab. Rhodey collapsed onto the well-worn couch while Pepper settled in her favourite armchair. While they poured themselves fresh glasses of wine, Tony selected the best place to mount the box on the wall, placing it above a slick metal shelf. Reaching up with a finger, he carefully flicked the flag on the mailbox down before settling the stationary kit reverently on the shelf. He brushed his fingers fondly along the edge of the box before moving to squish onto the couch with Rhodey. From his seat practically in Rhodey’s lap, Tony admired how his gifts looked in their new homes. The mailbox looked innocuous and cute, fitting in with the kind of mixture of old meets new he had in the garage. 

The rest of the evening went by in a mellow mix of liquor, conversation, and half-formed ideas that lingered in the morning as half-drawn blueprints. Tony remembered Pepper placing a hand on his and Rhodey’s shoulders before making her drive home as the first fingers of dawn split the sky. 

Tony eventually woke up fully dressed on top of Rhodey; the smell of coffee tickling his nose as he gained some awareness of the world around him. He stumbled the stumble of the hungover and dehydrated, nearly tripping over a perfectly flat mat on the ground as he went. From behind him, Tony could hear Rhodey grumble something about pointy elbows before drifting back to sleep. 

If he could just make it upstairs, Tony thought, he would be able to get coffee. Fresh, delicious coffee. Yes, that sounded nice. As he made it upstairs, Jarvis peered at him from over the edge of his newspaper. Two fresh mugs were waiting on the counter, one of which the elderly man pushed slightly forward. “Good morning,” he drawled, amusement making his green eyes twinkle. Tony grumbled a half coherent answer before burying himself in the caffeinated offering. 

Once he (and a very belated Rhodey) finished breakfast, the billionaire drifted back down to his lab. From there Tony let the time drift: designing and studying and tinkering. Until, of all things, he noticed the flag was up on his mailbox. The mailbox inside a lab that shouldn’t have anyone touching it. Approaching it, he carefully opened the top and peered down into it. Inside was an envelope. The paper was strange - thicker and with more obvious pulp in it than Tony was used to seeing. Using a pair of tongs, he pulled the object free and slid it into a sterile bag. He carried it over to one of his work tables and ran a cotton swab over the surface of the paper. Once finished, he closed the bag and dropped the swab in a tube. He slid the tube into one of his many machines and began to punch in the codes needed to run tests on the gathered fibres. “Alright Friday, can you tell me just what is going on here?” 

“Boss, this paper is from the thirties. It’s from an old paper mill in the Bronx that closed in 1958 called Abbott Brothers. There is nothing that will harm you in there.” Friday recited from the speakers.

“Thanks, Friday,” Tony said, a befuddled smile working its way onto his face. “Who would put a letter from the thirties in my mailbox?” He pondered that as he sat down on the stool next to where the envelope sat on the table. Jarvis? Maybe Jarvis went to an antique shop and found a few old letters. Fun things for Tony to read; possibly World War II era stuff for his collection. Or maybe Rhodey had snuck it in there before he had left, just to play. Tony leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table as he took a cursory glance at the envelope. The old fashioned writing and steady hand were nice to look at. Pulling the envelope free, he jammed a finger under the lip of the envelope and tore it open. He slid the contents out into his hand, finding what seemed to be just an ordinary letter. Reading it, he fought back a smile. 

> **June 1, 1940**
> 
> My dearest sir - no, too formal. Greetings? No, that is even worse.
> 
> Hi? Hello.
> 
> Sorry, I have never done something like this before. And I honestly cannot remember the last time I wrote a letter. But maybe you will be patient with me?
> 
> My name is St - right. We are not supposed to use our names, just in case the letters are intercepted. You can call me Grant van Gogh, I suppose. One of my best friends calls me van Gogh. I have been working on my art degree when I can afford to take classes, and part of me thinks Vincent is the only artist my friend - I guess I can call him Franklin? - knows the name of. Franklin is a good egg, though, even if he does not know many artists. I am real lucky to have him watching my back. He is actually the one who suggested I give this a try. I am sick more often than not, so sneaking out to the clubs is not easy to do. Makes it hard to meet with someone who is like me. I am sure you understand, in some way, since you are writing too.
> 
> I will be turning twenty-two in just over a month. Native to Brooklyn, born and bred. And my friends like to tell me I have more fight than any one body could contain. 
> 
> I hope you write me back. Just address the letter to R46S on the envelope, and it should reach me within a day or two. 
> 
> Sorry I am a real disaster.  
> -Grant

Okay, Jarvis or Rhodey hit a gold mine, Tony covered his mouth to smother a laugh as he read. The guy was cute from the sounds of it. Maybe a touch shy? Tony chuckled to himself as he continued reading. The fact this letter was never opened until that moment made him feel a little sad for the guy. Tony figured the letter had been confiscated or maybe just never sent, meaning the little artist had never gotten his hoped-for reply. 

Tony sat a minute theorizing about the twenty-one-year-old: Brooklyn, artist, gay as hell. The guy would be fine. He would have made some friends with other artists on his own - maybe even in his art classes. Surely one of them would have snatched up the cute kid, making the letter hopefully obsolete. Tony finished reading it with a small smile; the kid had a way with words. More fight than one body could stand. His first thought was of either an angry kitten or a chihuahua. And if this Grant guy lived up to that, he’d probably punch Tony in the face for that thought. 

Tony set the envelope inside Ana’s writing box, tucking it safely in the empty compartment intended to hold unresponded to letters. He thoughtfully traced the edge of the envelope before closing the lid, tapping it lightly. Maybe, maybe he would ask Jarvis how to write with a nib like that. His gaze rose to the mailbox. It seemed innocuous, sitting there with its lid up and flag high. “It was a cute trick,” he mumbled at last, reaching up to lay the flag down once more. Making a last-minute decision, he opened Ana’s box and grabbed the pen. He then went upstairs, hunting for Jarvis. For a moment, as he was about to leave, Tony could swear he heard the flag move, but that was ridiculous. Probably just a trick of the mind. He shook his head before going up the stairs. 

It took a little practice before Jarvis and Tony are able to work out something legible. The writing is not as practiced as the hand on the letter, but it is passable enough. When Tony brought the pen back to his lab, the flag was raised. Tony stared at it, knowing for a fact no one had come downstairs. Tony opened the box, finding a letter inside. He blinked. Turned away. Looked back in the box. Somehow, the letter was still there. 

What The Fuck?

“Friday, baby you have got to have something new for me here, honey,” Tony asked desperately as he put the letter under the fume hood. 

“There are traces of cologne sprayed on the inside; that’s the only new thing boss - old formula. Pour Un Homme de Caron,” Friday recited as Tony looked at the envelope. “Safe.”

The cologne did not smell stale, as Tony had expected. Instead, it smelled soft, nice, like some flowery smell, and a little fruity. Maybe a little vanilla. Definitely not like it was sprayed several decades ago. On the outside of the envelope was the same writing as before, and Tony was even more confused as he opened the letter. 

> **June 2, 1940**
> 
> Hello again.
> 
> I know it has not been very long since my last letter, but Franklin said my first effort was ‘a piece of work.’ So, I thought I would try again. Just in case the first one maybe did not convince you I was worth writing back to.
> 
> Right now, I am sitting in bed and looking out the window of the tenement I live in. The view is not much, since I live in the back of the building. Franklin’s family is in the front half, as they need the space. Franklin’s mother and three sisters make their entire apartment feel overwhelming sometimes; they chatter up a storm from morning until night. I do not mind, though, as the sound of their voices makes me feel a little less alone. Franklin tries to visit as often as he can, but he and his father work as much as they can to make ends meet. I pull shifts when I can, though my health has been so frail lately… I get so frustrated with my body. It is hard to convince anyone to hire me; shifts mostly go to men who are much stronger than I am.
> 
> I hate so much that people dismiss me immediately because I am small and frail. I hope you would not think poorly of me because of my body, but … I thought it best for you to know right away what I am like, just so you did not get the wrong idea of what I am like. My ma always said it was never wise to fall in love with a dream, because eventually you will wake up. If it helps in your imagining, I have blond hair and blue eyes. Franklin says I should describe myself with prettier words, but language has never been my gift. I would do better to send you a painting - that is the language I excel at.
> 
> Maybe you could tell me about yourself? I understand if you cannot tell me much, as we have to observe a certain level of secrecy. But I am hoping you will at least write to me. If only so I do not feel so alone.
> 
> Franklin also insisted I spritzed the letter with a scent he bought me a few years ago. I never really use it myself, though, as it tends to set off my lungs. But he said that it is a smell that suits me, whatever that means, and that you might like it. I hope you do. I also sketched my favorite view of the Island; I thought you might like that too.
> 
> -Grant

Tony paused as he looked at the letter and considered the unexplainable delivery. He bit his lip and looked over at Rhodey’s gift again. It was impossible, and yet… the sketch he was looking at was a view unlike one he’d seen before. It was old Brooklyn. But done in such care, with every little detail clear from the clothing hanging on lines to the way the buildings seemed to lean into one another. It was a view the guy probably saw a lot. Tony sat the letter on the worktop, letting the smell of the cologne linger. Drumming his fingers on the table, he read it again. “For science,” he mumbled, grabbing a stray notepad and a pen from nearby. The only way to get answers was to conduct an experiment, and so he began to work on the first draft of the letter he just wanted to try sending. He would rewrite it later, using Ana’s beautiful stationery, but in that moment he simply needed to get his thoughts out.

> **June 6**
> 
> Grant,  
> I was actually charmed by that little letter of yours, it’s just the fact I even got a letter was a surprise. The box was a gift from a friend who knows my taste. It was my birthday and a private evening compared to the… event my last party was. I thought the first letter was a prank, or a gift from a person dear to me. I am delighted by the sketch you have left for me and I could praise your line work for days. 
> 
> What I do is I’m an engineer. I design many things and try to build them myself. So my build tends to be fairly sturdy. I think you sound lovely. You must have long fingers that might be a little thin, tend to be smudged with lead or ink. Do you ever have to wash the lead from your face after a drawing because you’ve wiped your face by mistake? I have. Tell me more detail, does your hair tend to be more ashy or warmer? Does it lie straight or curl? 
> 
> As for myself, I’m of… mixed heritage. My mother is Italian, so I have her coloring. Warm skin, dark eyes, and hair that can’t decide if it wants to curl or go every which way. Otherwise I’ve been told I look like my father and grandfather. Which I guess is kind of a mixed bag since reportedly they weren’t always the nicest men. 
> 
> I think you are worth reading, and writing to. It sounds like you’ve been kind of adopted by Franklin’s family. Speaking as someone who’s had two different families pseudo adopt him, do you find that it’s really hard to say no to their cooking? Because my friend’s mom, Rhonda, makes miracles happen. And also tells me you’re a good person. People want to care for you, which believe it or not is a good thing.
> 
> I really like the scent by the way. But for the love of god, if it makes your asthma react. Don’t spray it in a closed space. If you get this please write back to me. And for the sake of your asthma, I am not spraying it with my cologne. Sorry to disappoint. 
> 
> Edward

Tony read over it, hoping through some miracle maybe Grant would read it. The engineer then grabbed a sheet of paper from Ana’s kit and the Conklin pen from its case. He struggled to focus on the pressure of the writing, but as he copied the text to the fresh sheet his handwriting did look good. Not quite the lovely work Grant’s writing was, but Tony liked it. Looking at the clock, Tony figured he had time for the ink to dry and send the letter to the address from the first message. And maybe go to the club. Give him something to do. On a whim, he put the sealed letter into the box and left. 


	2. Why Don't You Do Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's letter is well received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the updated tags. Consider this the general Ty Is A Dick warning.

There was nothing like the harsh, muggy air of a rainy June afternoon in Brooklyn. Every breath had a way of settling into the lungs that made it feel like you were drowning, and the moisture in the air mingled with sweat until it was impossible to get truly clean. Between the burning heat of the city summer and a broiling fever, Steve was silently wishing for death; Hell was probably cold compared to his godforsaken tenement building. And everyone wondered why New Yorkers were known for being a bit harsh. It was difficult to be pleasant when it felt like your body was melting off your bones.

But that was not the reason for the blond’s petulance. Oh no, if it had been that simple Bucky could have found a way to cheer him up. It had been days since Steven had written his second letter, and each day Bucky had to remind him that it would take time for his recipient to get the mail. After all, the Wilde Society had to sort the mail and deliver it, then the other man had to have time to write back. But with each day, Steve became more and more confident that he had managed to chase the recipient away. (Buck was fairly certain the blond’s morose mood had more to do with being sick than thinking the letter would go unanswered.)

When Bucky came home from work that day, he had stopped past the Barnes family hellhole to take the quickest shower possible - a newfangled thing he had helped his father install to replace the old bathtub. He then grabbed a hunk of bread and the pot of soup Winifred Barnes had prepared before heading out the door. A short walk down the hall and a bump to the jamb opened the door to Steve’s apartment, which was less than half the size of the space Bucky’s family resided in. It was two rooms crammed all but on top of each other with a set of janky glass doors dividing the two spaces. Moving into the cramped kitchen, Bucky sighed at the absolute devastation that reigned throughout the space. Steve had clearly forgotten to take down his laundry, as it was still strung on lines throughout the kitchen. There were dishes piled on the postage stamp table in the corner and on the chunk of wood that served as a counter across the top of the tub. Honestly, Bucky did not even know Steve even owned that many dishes.

“Stevie, you still alive?” he called. A shadow in the other room moved, which seemed to indicate that someone was still kicking. And that was good enough for Bucky at that moment. “Jeeze, punk, I don’t think your place could be more of’a mess if you tried. If my ma saw this place she might fall over straight dead.” After setting the pot down on the floor, he began to stack the dishes and clear a spot for the bread on the table. “Ma sent you some more food. She’s worried you’ll waste away to nothin’ if she don’t.” Once the table was clear enough, he moved the pot up off the floor, not bothering to find a trivet since the wood surface was stained with all kinds of things. 

When Steve still hadn’t responded, Bucky frowned. “Stevie?” Going over to the glass door, Bucky gave it a good shove until it popped open. He sighed at what he found. Steve was still alive - thankfully - but he was also an absolute mess. The man was stripped down into his undershirt and his boxers, just sitting in the windowsill staring out at the very stimulating fire escape. His hair was matted with sweat to the point where it looked brown, and the strands clung to his forehead like they were trying to meld with his skin. While the undershirt had probably been white once upon a time, it was now a dingy tan color that Buck really didn’t want to think too hard about. And Steve’s skin. This meschugener looked like death itself: Clammy, pale, rail thin, and utterly miserable. “Should I tell my ma you did die just so she can come over here to beat some sense back into ya?”

That finally caused Steve to look over, his usually clear blue eyes clouded over like a stormy sea. His shoulders rose and fell as a sigh shuddered through his body. “Maybe,” he croaked. “Get it over with. Nice and fast.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. Steve was such a diva. “I could,” he agreed easily. “But if I did that, I’d also have to write someone a letter. Tell ‘im you died afore you could read what he had to say.” And because Buck really was a punk, he pulled the letter out of his back pocket and gave it a tempting little wave.

Steve had never come alive so quickly in all his life. “A letter?” His voice was practically a warble it flew past his lips in such a hurry. “From…?”

“Yeah, from your secret club.” Bucky narrowed his eyes at Steve. “But I ain’t givin’ it to you until you get scrubbed up and eat somethin’. I’d be willing to bet Becca’s new shoes you have barely eaten so much as a crust’a bread since the last time I was around. I didn’t know you could get any skinnier, Stevie, but somehow you’ve done it.”

The Irish-American’s thin lips pulled into a decided pout. “Buck, come on. It’s my letter. You can’t keep it from me.”

“Sure I can,” the brunet declared. “What, you goin’ to come over here and try to beat me to take it, huh? I’d like to see you try.”

At that, Steve simply deflated against the dark wood of the sill. “James,” he whined. “Gimme my letter.”

“Yeah, no. Now that you called me James, you’ve gotta take a bath, eat some food, and watch me clean your dishes before you get the letter. That’s the law of the land now.” And just to emphasize how utterly immovable he was on the matter, Bucky crossed his arms across his chest and affixed Steve with his best disappointed stare.

Steve huffed at his best friend. “You’re a terror, Bucky Barnes.” But, he managed to wobble upright and began to shuffle towards the chest of drawers that also served as his art desk. He fought with one of the drawers for a moment before he finally got it to slide open, revealing neatly folded shirts. Steve grabbed one before looking over at the brunet. “You gunna start the bath or just stare at me, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get too fresh with me,” Bucky griped. “Else I will take that nice loaf of fresh bread and eat it myself.”

“Your ma make bread?” Steve fought his second drawer open and found a fresh pair of skivvies. 

“Better,” Bucky bragged. Moving over to the tub, he set the water running before moving the wood counter to the floor. “Becca did. And you know she’s got a gift with it.”

Steve sighed happily. “Yeah she does.” He snagged a relatively clean towel before shuffling into the kitchen. “... Thanks, Buck. For, y’know.”

Reaching over, Bucky wrapped his hand around the nape of Steve’s neck and gave it a squeeze. “You’re welcome, punk. Though, maybe you could try to take better care of yourself, huh? Make me worry a little less?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve managed to give his eyes a bit of a roll. “Whatever you want.”

Once Steve was clean, dressed, and fed, Bucky slid the letter across the table. “You read that while I do dishes. If you want to write him back, I can try to take the letter over today or tomorrow.”

Suddenly apprehensive, Steve picked up the envelope and weighed it in his hands. “Sure is some fancy paper,” he said slowly. “What they doin’ fixing a Joe like me up with someone who writes on stuff like this?”

“What, you gonna have a beef with ‘em because they set you up with some dandy? Even high-hats must feel the way you do.” Bucky shrugged. “Would also explain why he couldn’t just go to the clubs. More chances of running wrong of the cops.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Steve slowly opened the envelope and slid the sheaf of paper out. “Buck... I dunno if I can read this. What if he’s a greaseball? Or if he wrote back only to tell me to shove off because my letters were awful?”

The brunet took a steadying breath. He loved Stevie - he really did - but sometimes the kid was as thick as bricks. “Won’t know until you read it,” he said finally. “What’s worse? Not knowing or having an answer?”

Steve made a face at Bucky’s back, just to be petulant, before folding the letter open. His eyes carefully scanned the lettering, which was bold and sharp. There was something about it that made him smile: the letters each felt like they were almost stumbling together, as though the man’s brain moved faster than his hand could keep up. Oh, sure, the writing was still pretty enough, but it wasn’t as stiff and practiced as Steve had been expecting. He felt his hopes rise just a little. “Says it took him a bit to write back because at first, he thought it was a prank or somethin’. But that my second letter made him realize it was genuine,” Steve reported. “Says he’s an engineer. Which means you’re probably right that he’s in the money.”

“He’d have to be, to keep a job like that with the economy bein’ what it is,” Bucky agreed. “What else he say?”

“Says I sound charming,” Steve said, fighting back a smile. 

“Yeah, he only says that cause he ain’t met you,” Bucky teased. “He’ll wise up.”

Grabbing a crumpled ball of paper off the table - a failed artwork - Steve lobbed it at the back of Bucky’s head. “Shut your face. I’m wonderful. He’d be delighted to make my acquaintance.” The brunet just gave Steve an unimpressed look over his shoulder before resuming the dishes. “Says he’s Italian. Ma would’ve liked that. She always loved seein’ that Italian grocer at mass each week. Blushed up a storm when he’d talk at her in that accent of his.” 

“So what I’m hearin’ is that the Rogers share a weakness for Italians,” Buck drawled. “So, you gunna write him back?”

Letting out a breath between his teeth, Steve nodded. “Yeah. I think so. He seems like someone I’d get on with. And it wouldn’t hurt to write back? Worst he could do is throw it into the fire and ignore it. Right?”

“Right.” 

Steve nodded slowly to himself. “Funny thing? He mentioned being adopted by friends’ families. And the way they feed ya and take care of you.”

Bucky snorted. “Sounds familiar, don’t it?”

“Yeah.” Steve smiled to himself. “It does.” And it made Steve ache with empathy, because being adopted usually meant you needed more family. He wondered about Edward - about if he was everything his few words made him seem to be. Nevermind the fact the man sounded absolutely gorgeous, but Bucky didn’t need to know that. “I’m goin’ to go write at my desk. If I’m still writing when you leave, could you swing by before you leave for work tomorrow? I - I don’t wanna make him wait too long, y’know?”

Pausing in his work, Bucky braced his hands on the edge of the tub and smiled at his best friend. “Yeah, I can do that. And I’ll make sure it gets to the mailbox before my shift. Promise.”

“Thanks, Buck. You’re the best.”

“Yeah, I know. Now scoot. Go write loverboy.” 

Sitting, as best he could, at his desk, Steve carefully pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. He typically saved the blanks for his artwork; saved up his money to buy as much as he could when things were steady. But Edward deserved something better than a hasty note scribbled on the back of a flyer or something. Staring down at the crisp white paper, he considered how to respond to the man. In some ways, it was more nerve-wracking to actually respond to someone because it felt more real than those first two letters. And so, while he thought about what to say, Steve began to sketch the familiar shape of his own hands in the bottom corner of the page. Finally, he returned to the top and began to write.

> **June 9, 1940**  
>  Dear Edward,
> 
> I was both delighted and surprised to receive your letter. Franklin was becoming frustrated with how often I would ask if any new mail had come; whenever he would come to visit he would not even greet me before telling me there was nothing new. But today! Today he came, armed with his ma’s soup and his sister’s bread, with good news for me. He had a letter. And when I read your words I felt flustered and enthralled. You have such a pretty way of saying things that it almost seemed you were speaking right into my heart. I am simply grateful Franklin did not notice the way your words made me blush, as he would never let me forget it.
> 
> The fact you are an engineer astounds me. What sort of things is it you build? Though the economy is better than it was a few years ago, things are still so difficult. You must be very talented to have kept your job. I wonder if I have seen any of your craftsmanship without knowing it. What made you decide to be an engineer?
> 
> As I said, I am not the best at describing myself. So, I have left another drawing. This time of my hands. My ma always said I had a pianist’s hands, simply because my fingers are so long. Though I am very slight, my hands are rather large; Franklin likes to tease me that I have hands better suited to someone over six feet tall than someone my height. Most days my hands are covered in ink or charcoal, but sometimes I am lucky enough to get a job where I get to use paint. I tend to get it not just on my face but in my hair, which used to frustrate my ma so bad. She would always ask me if I rolled around in my art before finishing it, which I would tell her was the best part of being an artist. For some reason she never found it too funny, probably because getting ink and paint out of clothes is so difficult. 
> 
> Let me see. My hair is sort of a honey blond color, I guess you would say. Warm with some undertones of brown to it in the winter. But when I am feeling well and can go out in the summer, my hair bleaches out into pure sunshine. Rumor has it that it suits me, since I am as pale as anything thanks to my Irish heritage. I also have, according to my ma, eyes the piercing blue of the summer sea; but, I always thought she was exaggerating out of devotion to her child. They are just … blue. My nose is a bit crooked from having been broken. To Franklin’s everlasting frustration, I have a knack for getting into fights with guys twice my size. I hate bullies, and I am not afraid to stand up to them. Unfortunately, they are usually also not afraid to beat me senseless.
> 
> I would love to hear more about your friends and adopted families. And if Rhonda’s cooking is as amazing as you say it is, I would be very impressed. I am convinced, though, that some mothers just have magic in them that makes their cooking better. Whenever I make some of Ma’s recipes they never seem to turn out quite right, no matter how careful I am. Everything Franklin’s ma makes is kosher, them being Jewish; I love them to death, but I sure miss bacon some mornings. 
> 
> And I am sorry if this is too personal to ask - you can just ignore this part if you want. But I was just wondering… How did you know that you were, uh, a friend of Oscar Wilde? What made you decide to start writing? As I said, if you do not want to answer that, feel free to ignore it. I cannot wait to hear back from you again. Your letter made my day so much brighter. Thank you for writing back, Edward.
> 
> -Grant

**  
Catching sight of the brunet, Ty clapped slowly. “If it isn’t the genius, finally descending from his throne to be with us mere mortals.” Once Tony was close enough, the blond grabbed his wrist just a little too tightly and growled in his ear: “Tony, you’re late. Didn’t I tell you to be here an hour ago? You’ve embarrassed me in front of my friends.”

"Ty, babe, they know me. And I thought I told you I was going to be a little late. Unless the schedule changed?" Tony asked, looking from the group and then back at Ty.

“So now you’re accusing me of lying?” Ty narrowed his eyes at Tony. “Is that what this is?”

"No, not at all. I am calling it a missed connection which just shows how much I should work on networking. And I mean they should at least know me by some reputation Ty." Tony grinned and tried to wave the situation off - trying to remain calm.

Ty’s face pulled into a tight smile. “Why don’t you go get us drinks, sweetness? Make it up to us?” The blond dropped down onto his seat. “I’ll have a whiskey sour.” He turned to talk to one of the women at the table, Tony’s presence already dismissed.

Tony watched that for a moment and thought of winding a finger around one of the curls at the base of Ty’s neck. Tony shrugged after a moment "Whiskey sours all around then?" Tony asked, looking at each person at the table, offering a small smile as he checked for confirmation.

“Ty, I want a Cosmo,” The woman whined. 

Glancing up at Tony, the blond arched his eyebrow. “You got that?”

“And I want an appletini,” one of the others chimed in.

"Appletini, Cosmo, whiskey sour," Tony listed off. This is one of the parts he didn't mind that much about Ty’s group: They didn't overemphasize that he was Tony Stark. Mind you this wasn’t his scene; this was Ty’s reservation. No one knew he was here.

By the time Tony returned, Ty and the others had broken out their brightly coloured little pills. One of the women was even doing a line off the table - or trying to. She kept giggling, causing the drugs to blow across the table. Ty quickly took his drink, when Tony passed it over, before pulling the brunet down beside him. "Thanks, sweetness." He took a slow slip before smacking his lips. "Come on, pet. Share one with me." Ty gave the bottle of pills a little wiggle before popping one into his mouth. He then leaned in and began kissing Tony, tongue moving to breach his lips.

"Well... if you are offering it with a kiss," Tony frowned a small moment. Before letting Ty swap spit and pill.

Once the pill had dissolved, Ty leaned back in his seat and gave the brunet a lazy grin. “Thanks, sweetness.” His hand dropped to Tony’s lap - lightly tracing the inside seam of his pants. He then turned to share a pill and spit with the woman on his other side, his grip on Tony tightening further. 

"You're welcome Ty," Tony answered, shifting back slightly. He did not sign up for this. But well. At least he wasn't hiding it. Was the pill an upper or a downer? Tony wondered as he watched Ty continue to play tonsil hockey with the woman. He wasn't sober enough for this.

As Ty loosened up further, he leaned further into Tony. A wicked little smirk played its way around the edges of his lips, and by the time they left for the evening, the man would almost seem to be in good spirits. Or as good as he got, anyway. All Tony remembered was the dull throb of the alcohol and the pills when he woke up the next morning - his body heavy from dehydration. 

Jarvis made some wry comment on Tony’s state, he was sure, but everything seemed muffled and distant. Whatever Ty had given him packed one hell of a punch. Usually Tony was able to shake things off pretty well, but he was on a trip that seemed intent to keep going. 

After his breakfast (or lunch, more accurately), Tony made his way down to the lab and blinked at his many projects. Rather than even attempt to work, he simply collapsed on the couch to ride out the rest of the trip. When he awoke much later in the day, he at least felt vaguely human. If a human had been run through a blender a few times before being poured back into its casing. Head throbbing, he sat up and squinted at the lab. At least everything was in focus, which was a big improvement.

Tony bit back a yawn before pushing to his feet, teetering a little before he could start towards his projects. And then he saw it. Movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, Tony stared in abject shock as the little flag on the mailbox completed its upward movement.

Oh dear god. Tony hadn't hallucinated the flag on the mailbox moving. 

It really wasn’t a false memory or a dream. 

Tony stared at the new letter in his hand, this time not even bothering to run it through Friday. He opened the envelope after sitting himself down on a stool, diving right into reading the impossible letter addressed to him. Well, technically for Edward who didn’t exist, but still him; this was his letter getting responded to. This is a thing that was actually happening. Tony Stark was corresponding with a Brooklyn artist from the forties. A probably cute, gay as hell artist, that must have been heckling his friend to no end. 

Tony read the letter and grabbed the nearby notepad, scribbling out his reactions as he went. Tony took a few pauses as he read to go over sentences again. ‘Flustered and enthralled’; Tony nibbled at the pen cap of a handy ballpoint to keep from giggling like some school girl. And he made the guy blush. God. And then there was that amazing sketch of someone’s hands. 

Tony took a few notes on the paper about the nearest equivalents to his work. Weapons work was true, and working on communication devices. He was going to have to leave Friday out so far. She was a little too advanced to be talking about yet. 

“Oh,” Tony murmured out loud as he looked back at the sketch. Back to the paragraph and back to the drawing. Dear god those were his hands, Grant’s hands, on the page. And then Tony made a noise he hoped to god Friday didn’t record. Would it be inappropriate to ask Steve to measure his hand with a ruler? For a lie of getting him some gloves. Which actually wouldn’t be a bad idea. But also because he had to know. For science. 

Tony shut his eyes and took a slow breath. It was not going to do anyone any good if he started getting horny over this guy's hands at random. “God damnit.” Tony cursed as he finally read Grant describe himself in a meaningful way. Tony added a few more mental details: he probably had lashes for days that might be a little fair. The nose, the nose made him think of a photo he had seen ages ago of Captain America. A shot that revealed this little bend in his nose that looked like his nose had been broken at some point. 

Tony finally exhaled as he read about Grant wanting to hear about Rhodey’s family. He’d happily talk Grant’s ears off about the Rhodes family and Jarvis. Tony started making his notes into something more coherent as he thought about how to answer Grant’s last question. How was he going to explain Steve Rogers, Captain America, to Grant? Obviously not using any of those names. He’d figure it out in his draft. 

> **June 13**  
>  Grant,  
> Are you trying to kill me? Sounds to me like you’re a stunner. It also sounds like you needed that soup and bread. I know these are trying times, but are you getting everything you need? I hate seeing people go without. I am very happy to make you blush and fluster. Secret mission in life accomplished: fluster a little treat of a man. You are so honest it’s refreshing to me. 
> 
> Your skill as an artist is amazing and you’ve got me flustering a bit. I build and design a lot of things. Weapons primarily, but I am working on communication devices, some engines. I’ve had enough schooling and learn quickly enough that I can master a lot of things quickly. Maybe I should build you a suit of armor or give you a shield. Sounds like you have a lot of bruises a lot of the time there. 
> 
> I could talk for ages about my friends; Grant, are you sure we want to go into this? Rhonda’s cooking has made me rethink my stance on faith. And interesting you bring up your friend being Jewish. My grandfather was Jewish. My father had a complicated relationship with it, and I wasn’t raised into it. My birth parents died while I was young. I guess here is where I’ll answer about what lead me to being an engineer.
> 
> It runs in the family. I was taking things apart and putting them back together since I was four. It’s also something that keeps me calm. I like seeing how things work, I like knowing how they work. The last time I had talked to my dad, he’d been yelling at me because I accidentally broke a couple things because the vibrations from what I was fiddling with were knocking things off the shelf. My parents died in their vehicle that night while I was at home with Jarvis cleaning up the mess. The last thing my dad told me was ‘The only thing you’re good for is breaking things.’
> 
> Sorry if that was really dark. But as for that last question how I knew I had things in common with Oscar. There’s this person my grandfather helped whose legacy kind of shaped things for our family. I’d found paintings of him, and he was one of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen. And then I learned more. He was brave, he was loyal, clever, stubborn as hell. He was everything I didn’t think I’d deserve in a person who could like me. The thing was, I could never meet him. He died long before I was born. History says he liked women anyway. Not a single hint of any other preferences. Guess I’m lucky like that. 
> 
> And writing you back felt vital to me. I didn’t want you to think you were unwanted any longer than I had already made you feel involuntarily. I’m glad I made your day brighter. Your letters have been a bright point for me too. Your sketches are beside where I store my pens and letters; they look perfect on the wall. 
> 
> I can show you some exploded views I did a while back. They’re in the envelope. So sunshine, I hope this improves your day too. 
> 
> Edward.

Tony pulled out the exploded view of a watch he’d drawn in the midst of a trip. He double-checked it for parts that wouldn’t be available in Grant’s time and adjusted a few lines. Checked again for any dates, which there were none. It was a small enough drawing he didn’t need to fold it. A rewrite of the letter in ink and Tony wrote R46S for the address before setting the envelope in the box.

That night as Tony found himself in another dark club with too much liquor and not enough preservation, he knew he made out with a blond. One just as gone as he was. Everything else about the stranger felt off. Not the right shade of blue, not the right hands. He wakes up blearily in his bed when a door slams. Tony groans as he stumbles to the kitchen staring at a pile of his watches on the kitchen table. 

“Your date seemed to think he was entitled to those,” Jarvis said as dry as the toast on the counter. 

“Thank you,” Tony answered both in regards to the toast and getting his watches back from the thief. Tony rested his head against the counter, riding out the wave of nausea. After a careful bit of breathing and some sips of water, Tony carefully nibbled at the toast. “Did you see if we had any mail this morning?” Tony asked casually, wondering if Jarvis had noticed the mailbox at all. 

“Nothing beyond the usual. Are you expecting something?” Jarvis asked, raising an eyebrow over his mug of tea. Tony shook his head slowly, being careful with his body. 

“No, I guess not,” Tony lied as he made his way to the shower to finally clean off the previous night. Did he have to go in today? He’d find out after a shower he figured. 


	3. Hard To Concentrate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the guys see a movie and it creates a catalyst in Tony's thoughts on someone in his life.

Bucky was surprised how quickly Steve recovered from his illness. It was almost as though the letter had reignited the spark in the blond, giving him a reason to fight through. And it was a good thing, too, as the brunet was able to land them both shifts in a factory. It wasn’t the kindest work, sure, but it at least wasn’t anything that would kill Stevie - especially as the blond was set to painting watch faces. The money was good enough that they’d be able to cover the rent for Steve’s apartment if they pooled their wages, and if they were lucky the factory would keep them on even longer.

The only real downside to the work was that it left them both so exhausted at the end of the day that they barely managed to eat before collapsing in their respective beds. And, as fortune turned their way, it meant it was more than a week before Bucky was able to sneak down the alleyway near where Rockland Palace used to be. He quickly found the right letter and stuffed it in his pocket, hurrying away before anyone could notice his presence. Steve always wanted to go deliver the letters himself - probably hoping he might chance across his Edward - but Bucky forbade it. After all, if Stevie got arrested, he wouldn’t last a week in a prison. 

When Buck delivered the letter, he had to fight back a smile at the way the blond lit up like a firecracker at the sight. “He wrote me back?” Steve asked, all but flinging himself at his best friend to grab the letter.

“Yeah. Guess you ain’t managed to scare him off just yet. Pretty thick little envelope, too.” Bucky slid his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Seems like a good sign to me. If he were sick of your mugging, he would’a just wrote you a quick note and been done with it all.”

Steve flashed Bucky a wide, toothy smile. “Yeah. I bet you’re right. I’m hopin’ it gets easier to write once we know each other a little better. Right now it’s like… It’s like he’s a dream instead of someone real, y’know? Like, at any moment I’ll wake up and it’ll be like he was never even there.” He stared fondly down at the envelope in his hands, eyeing the way the letters danced across the page. “So I am just goin’ to enjoy every minute of it. Until I wake up.”

Reaching over, Bucky squeezed the nape of Steve’s neck. “You deserve good things, kid. I hope the dream lasts a long, long time.” It went unspoken between them that the letters with Edward were, for all intents and purposes, nothing more than a fleeting fancy. In the world they lived in, there were clear expectations of what was right and proper. Two men falling in love and sharing their lives together was so far outside of that limit it could be a death sentence for them both. But for now, in these golden moments, Steve let himself forget the real world. Instead, he imagined a place where one day, if he were lucky, maybe he could share his life with another man. They could build a home and family together, maybe have a house in the countryside where the air would be better for Steve’s lungs. When his dreams got particularly wild, the blond even imagined them raising a baby together, getting a dog, maybe even a cat too just because. His dreams were as big as the sky and just as impossible to hold on to. 

“Me too, Buck. Me too.” 

The pair shared a sad little smile before Bucky started for the door. “ _Muter_ expects you at dinner Friday night. Y’know how she gets about _Shabbat._ And make sure you wear a clean shirt this time!”

Bright laughter followed Bucky out the door as the blond made his promises to be on time and properly attired. Though he was not Jewish, Steve appreciated the devotion the Barnes family had for their faith. And he was always grateful that Mrs. Barnes considered him so much a part of the family that he was expected for their sabbath worship, even though he was Catholic to the core. It was not quite home, being with the Barneses, but it was something close. 

Curling up on his bed, Steve carefully opened the envelope. He peeled the thick paper back to reveal the treasures contained within. And _oh!_ Edward was clearly out to kill Steve. Along with the typical letter, there was also the most stunning drawing of a timepiece the blond had just about ever seen. Each line coursed with life and movement, which was so surprising of something inanimate. It was not typical of what most would consider art, sure, but Steve could see the talent and vision in it. And it just about made him want to melt clean off the bed just looking at it. Carefully, he grabbed a tack and pushed it through the paper and into the wall above his bed. Now, every morning and every evening he would be able to see a small reminder that Edward was real. 

Settling back down against the wall, Steve then turned his attention to the letter. The first half of the letter made a soft smile curl the edges of the blond’s lips. He was not sure how he felt about being called a ‘little treat of a man,’ sure, but … maybe it was okay if Edward called him that. So long as the other man did not call him short. Nothing quite got Steve going quite like being called short. 

And then the letter took a turn.

Steve’s heart ached for the mysterious brunet. Losing your parents was bad enough, but to lose them under such circumstances? And it honestly sounded like Edward’s father was a real piece of work - the type of person Steve would get into all kinds of arguments with. Reading the obvious pain in Edward’s words made Steve wish he could gather him close into a hug. But, that was one of the difficulties of their communication: they could not even share a secret smile across a room. The Brooklynite wondered if they would even meet or if letters would be all they ever had between them. His heart ached a little at the thought of feeling so alone for the rest of his life. 

Trying to shake off such morose thoughts, Steve crawled over to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. He carefully planned what he wanted to say before starting to write in his small, deliberate handwriting. 

> **June 17, 1940**
> 
> Oh Eddie,
> 
> Why didn’t you tell me you were an artist too? The way you rendered that watch is one of the most beautiful things I think I have ever seen. Your eye for line and movement … I barely know what to say. You have made something so mundane into something beautiful. I hope you do not mind, but I have hung it on the wall next to my bed so I can see it first thing when I wake up in the morning. I have the feeling we could sit side-by-side for hours, just you designing and me sketching. I think I would enjoy that very much.
> 
> As for getting enough. Well, we do the best we can. Lately Franklin and I have been lucky to pull some steady work. I am painting watch faces of all things. It is tedious, but it does give my mind time to wander a bit. And being able to pay the rent is always a good thing. If we get another week like this, I may even be able to go see a few pictures! I have been hoping to see Angel Street when it comes out, but it will really depend on me not getting sick. So far so good, though.
> 
> Franklin would think it is a hoot and a half that you think my honesty is refreshing. I think he curses it a blue streak at least once a week if not more. Says my mouth gets me into more trouble than I have any right to. But, honestly, it is not my fault that bigger men do not bother to take a stand for what is right. Just means a little guy like me has to do it for them. Of course, that did lead to me getting my knuckles scraped up real bad last week. But they have healed over real good; my ma taught me all about how to dress a wound so it should not scar over or anything. But maybe a suit of armor or a shield would be a good idea. Might actually give me a shot at winning against those big fellas.
> 
> And speaking of honest, I was not joshing you when I said I wanted to hear about your friends. They are important to you, and that means I need to know about them to understand you better. Plus, I know how important it is to have good friends when you do not have any family left. Ma died in ’36, and I am still trying to learn how to live without her here. Franklin and his family … Well. They helped keep me together. I also have another friend who is like you and me. Pendragon. He is a real smart fella and real popular at the local clubs. I have been out with him a couple of times, but I always get so shy. Never seem to know what to do when a handsome guy starts chatting me up. Probably does not help that Franklin always goes with me – says I need protecting – and a lot of people think him and I are a couple. Which, admittedly, when I was younger I wished we were. I was real sweet on him, because he is just my type: brunet, strong, smart, and mischievous. Helps he is a real charmer; the kind of guy people just gravitate towards to bask a little longer in the splash of his light. But poor me, he is so wild about dames I fully expect a shotgun wedding will be in his future. I have seen him going around town with three different gals in the same week. Honestly, I dunno how he has the energy for that many girlfriends. 
> 
> I am also real sorry about your folks. Losing them that suddenly must have been real difficult, especially given the last conversation you had with them. At least with Ma she died slowly and we had a lot of time for our goodbyes, even if I hated losing her. She died of tuberculosis. In some ways, I always wished she went fast so she did not have to waste away. But, I guess there are small mercies in dying of sickness. Sorry. I am not very good at offering comfort or anything like that. If I were there, I probably would have just held onto you. Touch and time just being together can mean more than words, I think.
> 
> That family friend of yours sure seems amazing. Almost unreal, like some sort of super man. I can understand why you would fancy him so much. But, Eddie, I am sure you would deserve someone that good. You seem smart and creative and so kind. He would be real lucky to have a fella like you, if there were any way for it. As for history books. Well, we all know they have a way of only telling what people want to hear. Maybe he was like us: hiding because it was not safe for him to be who he really was. That weighs on me sometimes. That every day of my life, however long that is, I have to lie to the people around me. Everyone expects I will settle down with some dame, have a pack of kids, and be just like everyone else in the neighborhood. But what if I do not want that? What if that is not who I am? I am scared I am going to lose myself, just so I do not get arrested. Maybe it is the honesty in me, but I do not think I could go my whole life lying about who I want to love. 
> 
> The future scares me, when I think about it. Isn’t that rich? I am so desperate to live – to make it through all the illnesses my body squares off with – and yet I worry it might not be worth winning that fight. Maybe it is my upcoming birthday making me feel this way. Franklin always says I get extra philosophical when I think too much about birth and death. He may be right. Sorry if this was a bit too much for you. 
> 
> Tell me something good? Something nobody would expect about you. I want to know the dark and the light of you, Eddie.
> 
> -Grant

\---

  
  


Tony first mentally answered Grant’s question with: That I trust a person, whose face I have never seen, from the 40s more with my innermost thoughts and my sexuality almost as much as my best friend? Which probably illustrated something fundamentally wrong with Tony that he did not quite understand about himself. Tony thought about that after he finished the letter. 

Just like part of him didn’t want to trust this idea that Ty was actually going to try for something steady between them; that they agreed to something mostly monogamous. They both had to have a few dates now and then with some women to put the effort to seem straight. But nothing serious and no sex with other people. Even with all of that, though, the brunet was still going to insist on protection. Jarvis had drilled that into his head very young the utter importance of it; he had lost numerous friends to the HIV/AIDS crisis. Tony could hope things would work with Ty. 

Tony tapped at his lip with a regular pen; he was still not quite confident enough with the nib on the Conklin pen to write a first draft with that. He sat in the garage working out his reply, tapping his toes to the music blaring out over the speakers.

  
  


> **June 20**
> 
> Grant 
> 
> I just never really thought about it that way. Still don't. But I would like that, having you draw around me. I like having my friend Rhodey around in the garage as a sounding board, too. He and I went to the same college; and, he is one of the most practical people I know. I have got your art in my garage. It's one of the places I spend the most time in. I think I spend more time asleep on the lounger than in my bed. 
> 
> I've never been the easiest to get to sleep. Nightmares. Ones that I think would seem crazy to others. I dream I saw my parents in their caskets and they had wounds that even as a child (which I usually am in this dream) I knew didn't fit with the crash. It haunts me. 
> 
> I am glad you have steady work, any bit helps; be careful to go outside for your breaks. I imagine your lungs will thank you. I am not sure if we can be seen or even near the same neighborhood, but I would like to see us in the same picture. Maybe we can see the movie in different theaters and write about it. 
> 
> I have to leave town sometimes for work. I visit different factories or manufacturers in other parts of the country. What I am thinking of doing is getting a friend to send a couple letters while I am away. Maybe you can tell me about your week. Also when your birthday is! 
> 
> Of my parents I missed my mom more; I'm sorry you lost yours young too. I would have appreciated that, just time with you shared in some way. I think I try to get things for people; I don't mean it in an attempt to buy people’s affection, but I want to see people taken care of. 
> 
> That family friend, I think without meaning to, left my grandfather lacking in being a good parent to my dad. I think he kept seeing the friend as some unattainable person to find. Some proof he did something good. Didn't leave much time for him to be a father. So my dad never learned. 
> 
> Is it wrong that I am glad my dad was gone so I could have Jarvis raise me? Jarvis and his wife were so good. I think of Jarvis as twice the father my own blood was. I think that might be the surprise since everyone else thinks my grandfather and dad hung the moon, but I think of them as failures as parents. 
> 
> If my family’s friend was like us, I would feel for him. Even history won't acknowledge the full man he was. But, what's interesting is he is responsible for a small tradition my grandfather started. We were given a name after someone in his life - I can't remember if it was a family member or friend of his. 
> 
> I'm sorry to hear the future scares you. I think it becomes easier with more friends around you. I also think moving forward is always worth it. And I think things will get better. They have to. But let me know when you have the funds to see Angel Street. 
> 
> Edward

\---

When the next letter came, Steve was beyond thrilled. He had worried that Edward would get bored of him and stop writing; but, so far the consistent correspondence was nothing short of intoxicating. It helped the blond understand, at least a little, what it must be like for men like Arnie, who were able to go to the clubs and make close acquaintances with each other. It was a little bit like having his own fella. 

Sitting down at the kitchen table, he skimmed over the letter - pen and paper beside him on the table. He was getting a bit low on paper; soon he would have to stop past to get some more. It was perhaps a bit frivolous to buy paper, especially with how much it ate out of his monthly budget, but Edward was worth it. Or maybe, if Steve were very lucky, he could trade artwork for some paper. The lady who ran the stationery shop was very charmed by Steve - Bucky claimed it was not charmed by so much as interested in - and sometimes she would be willing to make deals. It would be worth an attempt if nothing else. He gave the pen a little twirl around his finger, already planning how to fit a visit to the shop into his uneven work schedule.

The actual contents of Edward’s letter made Steve’s heart ache. While the man was wealthy, it seemed like he had suffered so much loss. There was an undercurrent of loneliness to his words that made it seem like he had never simply known what it was to sink into a place and call it home. To have a family that was, in every sense of the word, _yours._ With a frown, Steve began to set pen to paper.

> **June 28, 1941**
> 
> Dear Edward,
> 
> My birthday is July 4th. Franklin likes to tease me that the entire nation is celebrating my birthday. Back when I was a kid, I believed him. Told the other kids in the neighborhood all about how special I was. You can imagine how I took it when they told me that it was the nation’s birthday and not mine that was being celebrated. I ended up trying to fight twenty-four kids all by myself. It did not go well.
> 
> This year I think I will use the excuse of my birthday to go to the movies. Franklin promised me we would find time to do something together, though it has been a bit hard. Right now he is still working in the factory while I am doing some work in the library. Apparently a man had no right to be doing ‘women’s work’ by painting clock faces. For the life of me I just cannot understand why people believe one sex is more suited to a particular kind of work than another. If the mind is keen and the body is able, why should it matter who does what work? But, I suppose I cannot begrudge a woman a good job. They have fewer opportunities than I do, even with my body being what it is.
> 
> And family… Well, that is complicated stuff. I am real sorry that your folks were not the best, especially your father. He sounds like he needed to be caught less on the past and focus on the present. If nothing else, being sick has taught me to treasure each moment I get. Doctors thought I would not make it to adulthood, and I sure had a lot of close scares. So I am grateful for each moment I get. Makes me fight harder to keep going, I think. 
> 
> Your nightmares, though… Are you sure they are just dreams? That seems like the sort of thing a mind would not just invent. Either way, they seem real awful. And I am sorry you have trouble sleeping. If I could, I would pet your hair and sing you lullabies like my ma used to do for me when I was sick. That helped me get to sleep even when my lungs were trying to come out my throat. It has a way of making a body feel safe to have someone close, caring about you like that. I know we have not known each other long, but … it does not feel that way. It feels like I have known you for years; it is so easy to talk to you. And I would want to do that for you - help you feel safe. 
> 
> And honestly, I am glad you had Jarvis. It sounds like he was a better father to you than your blood father. What is he like, your Jarvis? If I were to ever cross paths with him, I want to know what I am getting into with meeting someone so important to you. 
> 
> And Eddie… maybe the future will be less scary, now that I know it has you.

> Grant
> 
> PS- Watching a movie for my birthday. I'd love to talk Angel Street with you. Tell me your thoughts 

Steve had been right that it would be difficult to arrange to see the movie. But, Bucky was nothing if not a miracle worker. Well, more like a self-sacrificing idiot. Either way, though, Steve was mighty grateful for him. The pair splurged on dinner at the local diner before heading to the pictures, settling in to watch _Angel Street_ in a theatre that sizzled with a heady combination of dread and excitement. “Why’d ya wanna see this?” Bucky asked as they waited for the reels to start.

Shrugging a slim shoulder, the blond smiled. “I dunno. Heard the play was real good from some of my friends in art school. When I heard it was gonna be a picture, I thought it would be good to see it.” A wicked smile danced across his lips. “Plus, if it’s as scary as they say, you can always bring one of your girlfriends to see it sometime.”

“Punk.” Steve only winced a little when Bucky hit him in the shoulder. “I bet you want to see this just’a watch me jump.”

“I mean… You an awful coward for someone with a mouth like yours, Buck.” 

Bucky rolled his slate eyes. “The things I put up with for you…”

As the lights dimmed, Steve gave a happy wiggle in his seat and nestled down into the cushion. The screen crackled to life as the opening cartoon started - the cheerful background music ringing brightly through the air. Bucky chuckled to himself while Steve laughed with his whole body, tossing his head back so far he nearly slammed it into the back of the seat. But then came the news reel. Images of the battle at Dunkirk flashed across the screen, stark in their violence. All of the laughter was sucked from the room as the realities of war - horrible and unrelenting - flashed before their eyes. And then came the film of Winston Churchill looking every ounce as fierce and stern as ever. Steve sat up straight at the sound of the man’s voice, nasal and slightly slurred: 

The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.

At Steve’s side, Bucky had gone completely still. Looking over at the brunet, Steve nearly vibrated with emotion. “Do you think we’ll join the war soon?” he murmured, trying to keep his voice low as the newsreel moved on to the next subject. 

Bucky ran a hand over his face, sighing a little. “Part of me hopes not,” he admitted. “If we do… a lot of men won’t come home.”

“But we’ve got to help,” Steve whispered vehemently, fighting with his whole soul to keep his voice down. “The Allies need us!”

“Stevie..” Bucky gave his friend a strained ghost of a smile. “Watch the picture.”

The basic premise of the movie was one Steve was familiar with: A woman was murdered, and her killer escaped. Years later, a married couple moved into the house and weird things began to happen. But it was far more sinister than he had ever expected. In the opening scenes of the film, barely on the heels of the credits, the old woman was strangled to death while staring right at the audience. A couple seats down from Steve, a woman actually fainted at the sight of such shocking violence. 

Steve sank into the narrative as poor Bella, the wife of the newlywed couple, began to believe she was going mad. Items around the house would go missing or appear in the wrong locations, and her husband, Paul, would accuse her of having displaced them. Paul slowly began to push harder and harder on Bella, convincing her she was going mad. By the time Bella began to hear footsteps in the supposedly vacant rooms above hers, Bucky had all but vanished inside of his coat - hiding from the unsettling horror of watching the woman come utterly undone. Steve, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to punch the husband right in the kisser. The way Paul would go from blindingly charming to absolutely cruel was the worst a person could be, especially as he weaponized it against the woman he was supposed to love.

And then came the worst reveal of all. Paul was not who he said he was, but instead the vanished murderer returned to find the lost jewels. His wife had mistakenly uncovered his past, leading Paul to decide to destroy her credibility by destroying her mind. By the climax of the film, as the cops stopped Paul from attempting violence against his wife, Steve was nearly on his feet. He both loved and hated every moment of the film, but felt a grim sort of satisfaction to see the murderer clapped in irons. 

“That was amazing,” Steve breathed, as the ending credits rolled. Looking over at Bucky, he laughed a little to find the brunet had his hands over his eyes. “Buck. It’s over. The good guys won.”

Slowly, Bucky peeled back his hands and glared at the blond. “Next time,” he groused, “I pick the movie.

\---

It took a small amount of digging, the movie Tony found that seemed to match the one Grant was watching was internationally called Gaslight. Tony sat in the garage watching it with a bowl of Popcorn as Jarvis left hearing what he was going to watch. 

The screen had gone to a screensaver by the time Tony emerged from his thoughts.

Tony leaned back in his seat realizing he’d been leaning forward for a fair while now. He blinked rapidly, taking stock of himself. A bit of water probably wouldn’t hurt. He should probably move, but his limbs weren’t cooperating yet. He glanced at the notepad he’d been scribbling on. There were at least seven variations on ‘I don’t normally hug people, but I need to hug this woman.’ A couple ‘let the dog stay’ comments. And himself agreeing with the “knock his block off” statement. 

Tony exhaled and flipped to a letter he had started.

> **July 3**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> That is a great birthday and no matter what anyone says those fireworks are yours. It’s your birthday, and you’re enjoying them, they’re yours. Throw those kids up Shits creek without a paddle. I just hope you were exaggerating about 24 kids. 
> 
> People are going to keep assigning bullshit about work and gender and keep shovelling it to kingdom come. It’ll get better. I have to think that, you know?
> 
> I still think I dreamed it - the injuries. I must have though, right? I’m a creative guy in my own right, Obie reminds me of that too. I might’ve watched something I shouldn’t have as a kid that gave me the idea. I don’t know. Obie knows me well; he’s been a part of my family's business for a long time. Functioned as an advisor and is one of the most senior members of staff. He might have been friends with my dad even. 
> 
> I’m going to see the movie tonight. So you have to imagine me sitting in the lobby scribbling my reaction on a notepad for the next bit. 
> 
> I uh, I have some mixed feelings right now. The actress was phenomenal and I’m….shaken. The guy’s actions and wording felt so familiar. His attitude. I am reminded of Obie and that worries me. 
> 
> On one hand, I think I could see Obie being just like Paul. But if that is the situation, I need more than manipulation to prove he’s doing something. I need to find more evidence. I need to convince the people around me or find a way to. I think the police would need to be involved before I try to even get him away from my inventions. 
> 
> But I think I can keep him away from my things going forward. 
> 
> Back to the movie. 
> 
> I might be wrong, but I see something in you in the police officer. It’s the “I can save you” attitude. How you run into those fights. By the way, how are the bruises doing today? I want you to be careful about the gut shots you take. I bet Franklin can back me up on this: there is something in you like that officer. 
> 
> I respect that.
> 
> I sort of wished Bella had stabbed the guy. Violence is not the answer, but being robbed of your mind is something I would probably want to hurt someone over. That said, “What knife?” and watching the light die from that man’s eyes for a moment was visceral. 
> 
> What Jarvis is like is: I’m going to go home, interrupt him doing something miraculous with knives, and hug him. I am going to be hugged back and probably tell him about the nightmares. He is one of the most loving people I know. His wife Ana is who the stationary kit I am using belonged to. It was my birthday gift from him. Otherwise, I’d probably be writing using anything I could find and using the most random paper. Jarvis and Ana were so loving, they were on par with Gomez and Morticia. He is super British. All of the sense and dry wit that kills me. 
> 
> Franklin sounds like he’s great to be around. I am glad you have someone like that in your life. I might think about you curling up around me to help me sleep later. I enjoy that you're so comfortable with me. It makes it great to read your letters. 

  
Tony paused in his writing to read the last sentence of the prior letter again. It might just be the fact that these are letters that they are sending, but if the guy is half as sweet in the letters as he is in person. Okay, with maybe a healthy dose of being a scrappy son of a bitch, but still, if the guy is even half as good as the letters made him seem, he was probably too good for Tony. Not to mention in the damn past.

> Give your friend a hug or something. Franklin probably deserves it. I’ll write you soon
> 
> Edward

Tony looked over the letter and set it aside. It took a quick walk to find Jarvis, as he predicted. And Jarvis was indeed doing something with knives. More accurately, Jarvis was chopping celery. Tony watched his hands move smoothly as he finished the stalk and looked up. “Is something wrong?” Jarvis asked, watching him as Tony stood for a moment.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Tony repeated as he unlocked himself. He shifted his weight from one side to the other before walking around the island. Whether it was because Jarvis just knew him that well or if it was because Tony was telegraphing something, it was just what he was looking for when Jarvis pulled him in for a hug. 

“Just what is bringing this on, my dear?” Jarvis asked as Tony took a slow breath. Tony wrapped his arms around Jarvis’s back and worked at loosening his jaw muscles. Jarvis was quiet as Tony gently rocked them - the motion soothing in its repetition.

“I’ve dreamed that my parents had marks on them that didn’t fit a car crash since I was six. But I don’t know if it’s a dream or something I made up. I dreamed I looked at their bodies during the wake. That they had marks that didn’t look like they were from a car crash. But there’s nothing that documents those marks anywhere,” Tony said carefully. “It’s probably a dream but uh… Obie has said it was just me dreaming, “ Tony added as Jarvis gently held him back just far enough to look at his face. 

“If you think you saw it, I believe you. Are you looking for something to do right now or do you need to be held longer?” Jarvis asked, keeping his hands gently on Tony’s shoulders. 

“I needed someone to believe me. You think something else killed them. Someone else, maybe,” Tony confirmed slowly. He watched Jarvis nod. “I uh. I need to finish something. I'll talk with you more in a bit.” 

Tony disappeared down to the workshop, where the letter draft was still waiting on the work table. He skimmed over it, making a few corrections, before grabbing the Conklin pen and the nice paper. The motion of rewriting the letter helped to soothe him further, helping his thoughts fall more orderly within the storminess of his brain. More than that, though, he smiled a moment at the thought of Grant, his little spitfire. Well, not his. The spitfire who, against all odds, would be reading Tony’s thoughts on a movie more than sixty years old. Shaking his head at the thought, he let the ink dry before sending the letter.

Heading back upstairs was a strangely tense affair. That night it was stew for dinner … and a talk. But neither man seemed to be able to broach it directly. Instead, Jarvis talked about his most recent visit with his Aunt Peggy. Tony discussed upgrades he had planned for Dum-E. They even made plans for the coming weekend - what new meal Jarvis would attempt to teach Tony how to make. 

It took bourbon to get to their real topic.

Sitting in the living room, both men seemed to cling to their glasses as the subject, at last, turned to the subject of Edward and Maria’s deaths. “I had suspected as such. If you were along that night, you certainly would have died too. And the only person who would have benefitted would have been Stane,” Jarvis said, carefully swirling the bourbon in his glass. “If you think there were any bullet wounds or strangulation marks, then it confirms everything I’ve feared,” Jarvis said with a sigh, looking over at Tony.

“It sounds like you’ve got a lot of things you are fearing. That can’t be good for your heart old man.” Tony lounged against the couch “But... Yeah. Those. Who would do that?” 

“I don’t have specifics in mind, but someone paid a great deal of money. Or someone willing to spend a lot, because I wasn’t privy to even try to examine the bodies at the wake.” Jarvis seemed to stare at the bourbon catching the light. “Or willing to pay for this information to be hidden. Aunt Peggy would have more ideas, I’m sure, but things have been difficult recently. I’ve been worried for a while.”

“Again, that heart of yours Jarvis,” Tony murmured softly before taking a slow sip. He let out a soft hum at the taste before stretching out carefully on the couch. “So I think I need to start distancing myself from him. I’ve never let him in the lab, but I have shown him projects. Maybe I should slowly start there.”

Jarvis nodded and took his own swallow. “If he catches on you surely won’t be safe. It may be wise to further expand on the self-defence courses that your parents had you take. But that’s going to be a balancing act since you must make sure he doesn’t think you believe he’s a danger. Maybe Rhodes could be amenable to teaching you some,” Jarvis mused. 

“I’ll ask next time he’s in - maybe he knows someone too,” Tony nodded, at least starting to form a plan.

Within a week he was introduced to a woman named Maria Hill, who had just been discharged from the Marines.

If it weren’t a conflict of interest, considering she was teaching him to fight and could kick his ass seven ways to Sunday, Tony would want to take Maria Hill for a drink. But, asking her out in any capacity would be something of a moot point, as she had been discharged for having a relationship with another woman. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was a nightmare, but at least it gave Tony an excellent teacher. She went to work quickly training him in a wide variety of combat techniques: drilling him in urban conflict, tactical thinking, and how to find spaces to hide in. Her taking his aim from pretty good to amazing was a great benefit too.

"The thing is, depending on how you're attacked, you might not have a standard weapon. Sometimes grabbing the nearest thing and making it a weapon is the best thing you can do. But I think you know this better than most of the people I've trained. Equipment fails. If there's an ambush, chances are it won't be Stark weapons that fall. Or, if they are, it would be because they haven't been taken good care of," Maria told him over an earpiece as he walked around in the middle of a field. She had declared the best way to help prepare Tony for some situations was to throw him into the proverbial deep end. For instance, tactical simulation with airsoft weapons. 

"So suggestions then, Maria?" Tony asked as he toed around a tractor. He hoped it would provide cover so he could get a better vantage; he just needed to get to the door.

"Call help. No shame in it. Call help, give numbers of the combatants, anything they can use to help," Maria said softly. Both behind him and in the earpiece.

“Oh shit.”

“Hi, Tony,” Maria grinned before she got him in the shoulder with the pellets. 

Ow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter Bucky and Steve work at a factory at the tail end of the Radium Girls tragedy. Tony suspects as much which is why he suggests Steve leave the factory building whenever he can on breaks.
> 
> Also the movie they refer to as Angel Street is known as Gaslight to the rest of the world. The version they watch is the 1940 movie. Which studios in America marketed as Angel Street to make sure it wouldn't be confused with the movie they were making with the same title and based on the play of the same name. 
> 
> The 1940 film was almost eradicated by MGM, who tried to destroy all copies of the film so it could not compete with their release. But it did manage to be saved and you can view it on Amazon Prime! 
> 
> Thanks again to Anna for the preliminary read and we can't wait for her to read the next chapter!


	4. I’m Stepping Out With A Memory Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve lives through the worst day of the year, while Tony makes some regrettable life choices
> 
> Steve: 1940  
> Tony: 2006

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: there are mentions of and references to infidelity in this chapter, plus grieving Steve dealing with his mother's death

As summer slowly bled into fall, Steve’s correspondence with the mysterious engineer continued. They talked about life, their opinions on art, and even more about their various preferences. The pair even developed a few inside jokes, which delighted the blond to no end. By the time September was drawing to a close, they were clearly friends… if not something a little bit more. Well, Steve hoped it was a bit more. He was utterly enchanted by Edward. The man was witty and sharp, but there was a brightness to him that made it feel like a perfect summer afternoon reading his words. And Steve would need every ounce of that warmth in the coming weeks.

Sitting in the windowsill, the artist pulled his blankets more snugly around his shoulders. Sure, he was wearing enough layers he should be fine, but with his frustratingly delicate health it never hurt to be too careful. Plus, the shorter days did something awful to Steve’s mind, drawing shadows around his thoughts. It was in one such slump that he decided to write to Edward. Perhaps the promise of a letter would keep him from fixating on a date looming large in the coming weeks.

Steve drew his knees up a little further and balanced a hardcover book against their thin tops. He checked his pencil, making certain it was sharp, before turning his attention to the blank page. 

> **September 24, 1940**  
>  Dear Eddie,
> 
> Been real cold lately, seems like. Yesterday Franklin said it was the coldest weather on record for the day - a full fifteen degrees below what we usually see. My lungs have been letting me know in no uncertain terms how they feel about that kind of weather. I have a bit of a cough creeping in, and I can only hope it does not develop into something worse. If nothing else, being out of a job means that I can stay bundled up at home. Franklin’s ma made me a new blanket with random bits of yarn leftover from some of her other projects. It is not much to look at - kind of hideous, really - but it is as warm as anything. And I was able to patch that hole in the windowsill like you told me to. It worked a treat. 
> 
> I hate this time of year something fierce. Sometimes I wish I could just go to sleep and wake up to spring. Or just never have to wake up at all. 
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> The anniversary of Ma’s passing is coming up soon. October 15th. Usually Franklin and I go to Mass, because it would have made her happy to see me going to church. I pray for her soul. Though, if I am honest, I cannot imagine God turning her away. Unlike me, she was good and faithful. Me … Well. People like me are only really fit for Hell.
> 
> Sorry. 
> 
> This time of year… it does something to me. Like the shadows grow inside of me the more the days grow shorter. The light is so hard to find sometimes.
> 
> But you are a light to me, Eddie. I am so grateful for you. Sometimes thinking of your letters is the only thing that gets me up in the morning. I hope you are well. And that you are able to find something to bring you joy. God knows one of us needs it.
> 
> -Grant

Sighing, Steve rubbed a hand over his eyes. He hated to think of Eddie reading those awful words, and yet… there was something good about having written them. Something good about knowing someone would read the things he didn’t dare to say out loud. All he could hope was that Edward would not judge him for being too weak minded.

\--- 

> **Sept 30**  
>  Grant   
> What if I were to help you out that day? Make a day of it for yourself and Franklin if he joins you. If she had a place she liked to eat, go there if it’s still open. Write to me, tell me what you see there, do a drawing if you have the paper. Go to mass and get those flowers. I think having less sun does something to people in the winter. Think about all the ghost stories people make up in the fall and winter. 
> 
> Losing time whether it’s to liquor or sleep is bullshit. The only thing that comes from them is attempts at damage control. I’ve lived it. It sucks. I’ve thought about hibernating the winter away like a bear, but I can’t quite do it. 
> 
> I want you to take care of yourself, Grant. I don’t do great around the week my parents died. My nightmares act up really badly unless I drink. And well. It’s a lot of drinking those nights. And use the change for whatever you need okay? I can’t be there like I want to. But I can do this at least, right?
> 
> I don’t think loving those we do is a sin. Love is a decisive motion that is guided by faith and trust in people. Something like that. If we were put here to love then I don’t think there’s a sin in following through on any actions of trust. We should not be guilty of thoughts, only actions. And if they are actions born from kindness, of something good. Then there is no sin to them. The action of loving someone romantically, the decision of deciding, yes, yes this is the person I want, is something that is between themself and the person in question. God and the church have no damn business getting in there. 
> 
> Sorry, this one letter is so short, sunshine. Was too busy folding paper around the coins to make sure it just seemed like it was a lot of paper in here instead of coins. Unfold it carefully and there might be a surprise. 
> 
> Hopefully maybe something that might make things a little lighter for you. It’s a reimagining of Jarvis. If he were to be something at least partially robotic.
> 
> Edward.

Tony slipped a sketch of Jarvis - done in a lot of heavy angles, to look sort of like a robot with a J in the corner with the letter - along with the funds into the envelope. Two dollars in a few quarters and some nickels were folded up in paper to keep from being immediately obvious in case the mailbox was accessible by other people who needed money. The man looked down at the envelope and sighed, closing it. Into the mailbox it went. 

Tony adjusted his sleeves dully. He wondered if there’s any point to even going to his outing tonight. He was meeting Ty for dinner and inevitably another night of dancing. Half of it not even with him. Liquor and probably some kind of substance. And who knew if there was any way if he’ll be able to do much of anything. 

Fuck.

Tony combed his hair and mechanically went about putting on what counted for “decent clothes” for the club scene: a v-necked t-shirt, a blazer, and a snug pair of jeans. He moved through the evening as though he were performing the half-hearted steps of a dance that had become so common it had lost its shine. First, slipping into Ty’s car and staring out the window as they drove to the club. Then, breezing past the bouncer and straight up into the VIP lounge. And the night then fell into a blur of substances, high-pitched giggles, sloppy grinding, and too bright lights. But then came the worst part of the evening: taking Ty back to his place.

It went about as he expected. With Ty half heartedly rocking against him with a well argued for condom; a condom Ty had vehemently argued against. Tony was at least bodily relaxed as he glanced back at Ty, but his mind was flickering through a myriad of thoughts - never quite settling on what seemed wrong. Tony grunted a moment as Ty finally slid in. He was so drained when a thought came to him: it would feel better if Ty did something besides grip his hips. Perhaps it was whatever cocktail of drugs they had had that night, but maybe ... maybe maybe the sex would be better with someone who had narrower hips. A smaller frame. 

It was definitely a lack of something - self preservation or inhibition, maybe - that brought the thought further detail. He imagined sharp, clever fingers reaching to pinch a little meanly. Maybe the guy would leave a mark where he could reach. Tony groaned imagining it: sharp bony hips against his ass and hair a bit blonder than the sight behind him. It took a moment before he realized he was fantasizing about Grant. Damnit, dammit it was so wrong. 

And of course he was getting hard thinking about that. It was something about how Grant wrote about him. About how Grant imagined him. He would need to be blind to miss that the guy liked him. Made him feel wanted. 

Of course, those revelations came too little too late as far as Ty was concerned. Whether it was he lost time or whatever Ty took wasn’t helping him, Tony was on his stomach resting with an erection and dreaming of yet another blond he’d never meet or deserve. Tony rested his forehead against the pillow and muttered a forlorn, “Fuck.”

\--

October 15th was not a pleasant day for the Rogers-Barnes contingent. Winifred Barnes did her best to soften the start of the day for Steve by making his favorite breakfast, though without his ma’s famously crispy bacon. The lack of it on the plate, however slight it seemed, served as a sharp reminder that life was a bleaker place without Sarah to brighten it. And boy did he feel ridiculous for tearing up over bacon of all things.

The Barneses were kind enough to not comment on the obvious war of emotions on Steve’s face. Instead, George loudly carried on a conversation about what Hilter and his goons were doing, talking about the laws being passed to prevent the Jewish people of Germany from holding certain types of jobs. Which of course led to Bucky griping about the new immigration policies being enacted by the American government. In another life, Steve always supposed George Barnes would’ve gone into political science and Bucky would have gone to some fancy ivy league school. Both of them were whip smart and loved to share their opinions on anything. Seemed like the sort of things academics liked to do. And usually Steve would be right there with them, jabbing the table with his finger as he argued for social services and equal wealth distribution. But not on October 15th.

After finishing his breakfast, because it never did to waste food, Steve retreated to his apartment to change into his Sunday best. Admittedly the shirt was too big - one of Bucky’s hand me downs - and the pants were wearing thin in the knees. But, the blond knew his ma would appreciate the effort for what it was. He then slung on his winter coat, ignoring the way it overwhelmed his figure, before going to collect Bucky. 

The pair walked in silence through the streets of Brooklyn. It was noisy in the early morning way, with the rumble of cars and the clatter of shops opening serving as the soundtrack to their journey. Steve barely noticed it. As the part of Brooklyn they lived in did not have much of an Irish population, getting to his ma’s church took them a while,. Each step reminded the artist of early morning walks with Sarah, who would always be in one of two dresses, her hair neatly pinned, and a hat carefully perched on her head. And her gloves, white lace that had begun to fade into ecru from age. If he thought hard enough, he could almost feel the light pressure of her hand resting in the curve of his elbow - almost hear the gentle tinkle of her laughter in response to his dry humor. 

Losing her had been like finding out summer would never come again. Four years later and he still felt the ache of her absence. And he wondered, cruelly, if she ever regretted having him. If she ever regretted taking the job at the hospital in an attempt to keep her boy alive. Deep down he knew she would never regret it, and she most certainly would never regret him. Even on her deathbed she had only expressed love and gratitude for her son. But the shadows in his mind made him doubt that love; or, rather, doubt his worthiness for that love.

He was almost mechanical in his responses when they got to the church. Every motion was an ingrained habit for Steve (Bucky not so much), and before he quite knew it, the service was over. Once the crowd had dissipated a bit, he lit a candle and offered a prayer for his mother. And, some traitorous part of his heart prayed for Edward too. That the other man would be happy and safe. If love was of God, Steve reasoned, then surely hoping for someone’s happiness was a good thing. He hoped.

Finishing his prayer, he turned to find Bucky staring up at the chapel’s ceiling. The building was far finer than the synagogue the Barnes family attended. Well, perhaps not finer. Gaudier, Bucky would say, once they were safely on the path to the florist down the street. Steve attempted a smile and simply said, “Yeah, they sure like their gold leafing and stained glass, don’t they?”

“I guess so,” Bucky agreed. “It’s nice, though. Having artwork like that in a holy place. Muter always says that beautiful things remind us of the divine, and some of that fancy glass was mighty fine.”

A robotic nod was the only response he got.

As they came up to the florist, Steve slowed. He usually only managed to buy a single carnation, but the weight of Edward’s coins was heavy in his pocket. It was tempting to simply send the money back, tell the other man thanks but no thanks. But … sending the money was Eddie’s way of trying to be there for Steve during a difficult day. Would it have been so different if the engineer were standing beside him and offering to buy flowers for his fella’s mother? 

Reaching into his pocket, Steve carefully counted out a full seventy-five cents for a bouquet. The florist was able to make a pretty arrangement with bells of Ireland, peonies, and hydrangea - all in the soft blues, pinks, and yellows Sarah had loved so much. Taking the wrapped package in hand, the blond cradled the flowers to his chest and started towards Holy Cross Cemetery. When Sarah had died, Stevie had worked himself nearly into his own grave to afford getting her buried in a Catholic cemetery, but it had been worth it. He knew how important it was to her to be buried on holy ground and have all of her rites done correctly. And, in a way, it was a small mercy that she was not buried closer to where Steve lived. If she had been, it would have been too tempting to spend hours sitting beside her grave, dreaming of a world that no longer existed.

Bucky gave the flowers a careful glance. “I take it your engineer friend wanted to pay his respects?” he guessed. 

“Yeah.” Steve resisted the urge to hold the flowers even tighter, worried he might crush them. “Sent along enough for us to get some lunch too. Wants me to try to take care of myself today.”

Nodding, the brunet tipped his head back in a pretense of checking the weather. “Seems reasonable to me. Kind of him, too.”

Steve snorted. “You almost sound like you approve.”

A sad smile drew across Bucky’s lips. “Yeah. Almost.” Reaching over, he slung an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “You still wanna get boozy tonight?”

“Is that even a question anymore, Buck?” He rolled his eyes as Bucky ruffled his hair. “Got a bottle of the cheap stuff back in my room. Probably go through most of it, if I can stomach it.”

Steve knew his mother would not approve of him getting drunk, but it was all he could do when faced with the emptiness of the night. Every other day of the year, he handled it just fine. But not on October 15th. Bucky was good enough to stay with Steve, making sure he did not get too sick or find his way into any trouble. If it were not for the potent sorrow of the day, it might even be fun - like old times, when they were mere children sharing a bed while Sarah was working the graveyard shift. 

Walking into the cemetery, Steve easily navigated through the lines of headstones to the considerably less grand corner where his mother was buried. It always struck him as a bit funny that even in death how much money you had in your pocket determined how much people valued you. His ma had deserved the finest headstone and a lot with a beautiful view, but all he had been able to afford was a small plaque tucked into the most obscure corner. At least her grave was easy to find, as it was right near the gardener’s shack and the wall. 

Crouching down, Steve carefully cleaned off her headstone before setting the flowers across the top. His bottom lip wobbled as his spindly fingers traced over her name. “Hey Ma,” he croaked. “Brought you a real nice bouquet this time. I remembered how much you liked peonies. Always telling me about how you wanted a garden to plant some in one day, when I was a famous artist.” He rubbed his thumb at a bit of dirt stuck in the middle of one of the numbers on the headstone. “A friend of mine helped me get ‘em for you. I think you’d like him, Ma. He’s … he’s real smart. And he makes me happy.” Taking a shuddering breath, Steve tried to blink the tears out of his eyes. “Would you be happy for me? Would you still … still love me, Ma, if …” He could not even manage to choke out the words. Instead, he sat down hard on the ground and cradled his head in his hands, full-bodied sobs overtaking him.

A few moments later, he felt the warmth of a hand on his shoulder. Bucky had moved to crouch down beside Stevie. “I think you’d approve of this fella, Mrs. Rogers,” he said, his voice far steadier than Steve’s. “The way he makes your boy glow is like nothin’ else. And I know you always wanted Stevie to be happy, whatever that looked like. We just wish you were here to tell him that yourself.” 

Shuddering through the tears, Steve leaned into the bulk of Bucky’s warmth. He was not entirely sure he believed what Buck said about his ma, but he desperately hoped it was true. That she would support Steve and that she would approve of Edward. Because… there was a very real part of the blond that thought he could fall in love with the engineer. The more he knew about the man, the more in danger his heart became.

That night, long after their fine meal and Steve’s consumption of far too much liquor, the blond was unable to sleep. Sitting at the kitchen table, he stared down the glass of water on the table; his thoughts a muddled swirl of alcohol and sorrow and self-loathing. And every once in a while, like a flash of lightning through the thunderclouds, thoughts of Edward would pierce the gloom. Which was what probably led to his somewhat unwise decision to snag a piece of paper and light the small lamp on the kitchen table. The page swam across his vision several times as he wrote, causing the letters themselves to be far less precise than they usually would. 

> Eddie,  
> My ma sends her regards for the flowers. They were very pretty. Pretty, pretty, perttty. Got her bells of Ireland, because she and my dad they came from Ireland. Liek.. immmigrants. From Ireland. And peonies. Poenies? You know. Flowers. And hydrangea. That’s such a weird lookin word. Hy-dran-gea. You ever wonder about where people decide to name flowers? Because, like, do they just look at it and some fella is like “that looks like a hyydrangeon.” And everybody else is all “Yeah Jim that for sure is a hydrangeo.” So everybody just starts callin it that. Wht if someone else called it by a different name before that, but they weren’t as popular as Jim so nobody used that name? Do we just go with the popular name or the first name? Or is the first name not a real name because nobody used it?
> 
> I blame capitalism. Those punks are always makin it about who has the most money and knows the right people. THey don’t care about the little guy. They don’t care about women. All they care about is if they have money and if they can get their dicks wet. Screw them. Did yknow that my ma had to be burried - buried? in the poor part of the gaveyard? Just because we werent from one of the old families that had been donating to the diosees since the beginning of time. Absolutely gets my goat that these punks just talk out their asses about being like Christ and doing Christian goodness, but then they hide the poor as far out of sight as they possibly can. That ain’t right, Eddie. Ain’t Christlike. He would want them to treat everybody the same. 
> 
> You don’t evne want to know how much it cost me to have Ma’s last rights done. The priest weren’t even going to come do them, because of how broke I was, but Frank’s family stepped in. Said that the priest bettre get his rear to the funeral or else. I think he did it more because he was scared of what Winni would do to him than agreeing to take the money. That woman could scare the paint off a wall if she wanted to. And when her and Ma got together… Lord love ‘em, they could’ve taken over the world if they had a mind to it.
> 
> Bu- But. Frankling says Ma would like you. Like the fact you make me smile. Apparently I’m a real stick in the mud a lot of the time. But you make me happy. And that’s a good thing. You’re a good thing. Eddie… I want you to have good things. Are you happy? I want you to be happy. If you’re not happy, you should just… fix that. Because you should.
> 
> I’m sorry if I don’t make mcuh sense. Apparently I cannot hold my liquor well. Least that’s what some people say. People who are currently snoring in my bed. He’s so loud I can barely hear myself think, Grant. Wait.. I’m Grant. Sorry, Eddie. I should probably go to sleep. 
> 
> Is it weird that I miss you, even though I never met you? Because I do. Sometimes I expect to turn around and see you standing there. And I don’t even really know what you look like, except the colors of your complexion and a bit about your build. I wish I knew what face to dream about. 
> 
> Grant

In the morning, Bucky grabbed the letter off the table before Steve had managed to wake up. He did not even hesitate to post it, not considering that the blond might have written it while drunk out of his mind.

\---

Tony woke up alone. His erection had died down, and Ty had cleared out. “Never was cuddly just, I was already as close as a person could get you know?” was what Ty had told him once. As of yet there wasn’t any indigestion at least. Tony looked at the information Friday was displaying on a blissfully dark setting. It was definitely a morning where he empathized with Grant’s sentiment: just leave him in the dark to hibernate. 

But, as he looked at the display again, Tony noticed the blinking envelope surrounded by blue. Dum-E had set another letter in the basket. It had taken way too long for him to work out the bugs in that. It had also been too long since he'd been clear headed enough to code for extended amounts of time. 

Another date, another dollar, Tony thought nonsensically as he stumbled out of bed. He guided himself down the stairs and looked over as Jarvis was reading a tablet. "There's coffee in the pot, and Ms Hill is on her third cup already. She is an interesting running companion when you awaken early enough," Jarvis mused as Tony poured himself a mug. 

"I don't doubt that. I just need a bit more time before I want the shit kicked out of me. Why is she here so early?" Tony asked, throwing a couple slices of bread in the toaster.

"Because you are doing the opposite of what you should be doing, and you are not doing yourself any favors being around that creep. All of that shit dulls your senses." Maria uttered firmly as she poured herself another coffee. "Better to sleep and then sweat it out of your systems."

"I just have a couple things I need to do first," Tony firmly replied. 

"If you are sure. Just means I am going to be harder on you later, Tony," Maria warned as she sat on a bar stool. 

"That's fine," Tony waved as he went down to the garage. He grabbed the letter and sat on his usual chair. Tony sighed, looking at the spelling and back at the sloppy lettering on the front. Grant wrote this smashed, and Franklin still sent it. If it was intentional he would have to commend Franklin for making sure Grant survived.

> **Oct 19**  
>  Grant,  
> How bad was the hangover sunshine? I have the feeling that you are aware most of the origins are either Greek or Latin, and because a bunch of scientists worked in those languages. And that sounds like a very pretty bouquet. I hope you and Franklin ate well. 
> 
> I'm very glad to make you happy there honey. You deserve some sweetness. I was too young to know how much everything cost for my parents, but the highway robbery doesn't surprise me. Everyone deserves a burial fitting their faith. But the church is not my favorite institution for exactly the reason you bring up Grant. Shoving the poor further under the rug.
> 
> I think my mom would have loved you too. She was passionate about the arts and music according to what I have heard and read. And Ana, she would probably rant about the quality of education and teaching between classes and how things like reading and fostering a love for books are so important. But also finding someone's passions and encouraging them. She would love you. 
> 
> I uh, I was going to make it a surprise, but I am getting a camera. I am changing part of my garage into a darkroom so no one else will see any of the pictures or anything. Any requests? Besides my face so you can spot me in a crowd. I might do some pictures with a friend who is teaching me more fighting. 
> 
> She learned it through a friend and is making sure I can hold my own should Obie try to send someone after me. Her name is Maria Hill, and she is kicking my ass. So, in regards to that, I am happy. 
> 
> I uh. I could be happier in other parts of my life. A person I spend time with, for all that they reassure me of interest and feelings, I find myself reserving myself. I talk them through discoveries, and they tell me to calm down or it's not that big of a deal. I have to argue for things that are for my own health and safety. And I end up under the influence of things I keep saying I am avoiding. And I am so frustrated by all of this.
> 
> But pictures. What would you want? 
> 
> Edward

Tony rewrote the letter quickly trying not to think of how he’d imagined that Grant had been the one with him last night. It was hitting things that felt too close to cheating for him to be comfortable. He sent the letter and worked on how to bring up at least talking to Ty about why he wasn’t happy. Grab some flowers or something, a new tie clip. 

It would be fine.


	5. What Hurts The Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As an answer to the last chapter. Things are not okay. And mistakes are made.

When Edward’s letter arrived, Steve’s usual excitement melted into horror. He had been in the midst of working on a letter to the other man when Bucky arrived with the envelope. That meant Steve had not dreamed his drunken scrawlings and had, unwittingly, bared his too raw feelings to a man he had never met. Taking the paper, he skimmed over the words - his blood draining out of his face as he remembered flashes of his own error-ridden letter. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost there, bud,” Buck drawled. “He tellin’ you awful things or something?”

“The letter you took last time,” the blond said slowly, “I wrote it drunk. Never even really meant to send it. But … I left it on the table.”

Understanding dawned bright on Bucky’s face. “So I took it, thinkin’ you had written it before. Oh skies, kid, I’m sorry. Never would’ve sent it if I realized you had done that.”

Steve’s rail-thin shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. “No use cryin’ over spilled milk. And he didn’t seem to mind too much. Least, not that I can tell.” That, at least, was a relief. “But I better make sure this next letter is good, just so he don’t think I’m a lush.”

“Stevie, I doubt he thinks you’re a lush. It was a bad day, that’s all.” The brunet pulled his best friend into a firm hug. “Why don’t you go write him? I’ll stick around until you’re done, and then I’ll run it right over. Just in case.”

A soft smile turned Steve’s lips. “You’re the best friend a fella could have, Buck.”

“Yeah, I know, punk. Now go write your boyfriend.” 

Walking back into his room, Steve quickly pulled out a sheet of paper and read back over the letter. While he debated what to write, he began sketching the first thing that came to mind: his mother. It was based on one of his best memories of Sarah, back before she had gotten sick. She was wearing her hair down in loose golden waves and laughing happily at something silly her son had done. In a word, she was absolutely radiant. Once he had finished the drawing, Steve grabbed a fresh sheet of paper.

> **October 24, 1940**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> I have no words for how mortified I am that you actually got that letter. You must think I am such a sap for sending you such a mess. As you can tell, I was having a tough time of it. Usually Franklin is awake to keep me from getting into too bad a spot, but he has been working so hard lately that he fell asleep before I did. I never do well on the night of Ma’s death. Getting drunk off my face and passing out is a better option than what I tried in the past. I guess of all the options, writing you is not the worst thing I could have done. Still, I am sorry you had to see me like that. To be honest, I am not sure I even remember everything I wrote. I apologize if I was untoward or offensive in any way.
> 
> And the hangover was not too much. On the level, I slept most of it off. Woke up in the late afternoon feeling like something had died in my throat and my eyelids were sandpaper. A quick shower, some water, and lunch had me right as rain soon enough. I almost never drink, so Franklin actually had to teach me how to take care of myself after the second year of it. He shook his head at me so much I was pretty sure it was just going to roll clean off his shoulders.
> 
> You do make me happy, though. I am glad I managed to tell you that, at least. Reading your letters makes me feel like – well, I am not sure how to word it. But it is a good feeling. It is like you turn my blood into fireworks, and they pop in my veins when Franklin brings me one of your letters. 
> 
> Ana and your mother both seem like they were lovely women. Probably would have gotten along with my ma, so long as they did not mind an Irish woman. She loved music and art; when I started showing a talent for drawing, Ma pulled extra shifts at the hospital to pay for materials. Even helped me find an art class to take. Without her, I probably never would have followed my passion for art. And Franklin often reads to me, when I am too sick to do anything. He loves those pulp novels and stories about the future. A couple weeks back he read me 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I feel like you and him would love to talk about technology and its potential. The way he talks about technology is like… like it has the answers to the world’s problems, but we just have not managed to unlock it yet. I do not know if he is right, but it sure is nice to imagine a world where everyone has enough to eat and things like Polio are gone. 
> 
> There are some things I never expected when my ma died. Like not getting to hear her voice again. I never considered what that would be like, you know? While I sound all Brooklyn, Ma sounded like she had just kissed the Blarney Stone her accent was still so thick. I miss the sound of it, sometimes. The neighborhood I am living in does not have a strong Irish population, so I have to go pretty far to hear it. But sometimes… sometimes it is worth the walk. I included a sketch of my ma, in case you were curious. I can never seem to get her eyes quite right, though. They always managed to look at you in a way that was as soft as flower petals against your skin, but under that you could see a brightness, a strength that came from everything hard she had been through. She was life and fire and hope and laughter. Even after she got tuberculosis. 
> 
> I am glad you are getting some more training in fighting. It sounds like you might be in real danger from Obie, and it is better to err on the side of caution than get caught in a bad way. Franklin likes to say the best fights are the ones we can avoid, but when we can not avoid them then we might as well win them. Of course, I do not know what that is like from personal experience. Usually Franklin finishes the fights I end up in, even when I have the other fella on the ropes. 
> 
> And I would love to see your face. Any photo of you would be a treasure, honest. Maybe a photo of you where you feel the most at home? If you are feeling real generous, maybe even one of your hands? It would be nice to have a new model to draw, and I have been doing a lot of hand studies recently. I would love to draw you. Feel like I have a piece of you close by. Though I have the feeling you are far more handsome than I would quite know what to do with. A man with your soul and verve probably has a face to match. I can imagine it now: the way your eyes sparkle when you are excited and the bright smile you give someone when they make you laugh. I bet you are absolutely stunning.
> 
> Sounds like, though, this person is not being good to you. A friend should take care of you and listen to you; the things you are passionate about should not be a burden to them. And, they should care about your health. I mean, what would you tell me if Pendragon decided to make me go running through the streets of the city, not listening to me remind him about my asthma? I feel like you would have some pretty strong words about what he could do with himself. Is your friend any different?
> 
> Take care of yourself, Eddie. You deserve good things.
> 
> -Grant

Finishing the letter, he tucked it and the sketch into the envelope. He then scrawled the numbers on the outside before moving back into the kitchen. “Thank you again, Buck,” he murmured, handing it over. Drawing in a slightly wheezy breath, Steve nodded to the envelope. “I just … hope he likes it.” A slight cough caught in the back of the blond’s throat.

“If he don’t, I’ll kick his teeth in,” Bucky promised. “I’ll be back to check on you in an hour, alright? Sounds like you need to go lie down.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going.” Turning, Steve shuffled off to bed, rubbing at his chest with a grimace. 

\---

> Grant,
> 
> Sunshine. 
> 
> I haven’t gotten your letter yet. I am writing because I need to remember there are good things in this world. I know you probably won’t get this for something like a week, but I need this out of me. You are good, you are willful, creative and any man worth his salt would be so damn lucky to have you. I am lucky to have you in my life Grant even if it’s just through these letters. Until I figure out just how the hell I’m gonna get to you, it’s so complicated sweetheart, I am lucky to know you.
> 
> I was going to have a conversation with someone I thought I was close to. That the relationship I had with him had finally taken a turn that I’d secretly hoped for. At least something like dating. I know you didn’t approve of him but we had gotten along well. We had disagreements, and I was going to talk about them. About how I was getting really tired of feeling like he was only there for attendance rather than like being invested in being there. I had mental flow charts ready for any arguments. Something needed to change or I was gone. 
> 
> He’d given me a spare key just in case I had to leave early for a flight. Never set any extra alarms though I had asked. I was usually okay, only had the one time I was late and it was my own car anyway. The point being I’m extremely sorry for not listening to you. I tripped over a pair of heels in the doorway. And there was a stocking, garters, and this Hansel and Gretel trail of clothes leading to some damn familiar groans. Both sets were familiar. 
> 
> Gialetta, Gia, though she hated that nickname. She was a university ex. One of the few women I dated. She has a voice that is like really really good whiskey, smooth, rich and so expensive. Had stolen about five watches and two blue prints to power generators that could power a city block or two, without taking up a huge amount of space, for at least a year without any smoke or waste. And getting them back is why she sounds so expensive. And well, Ty. 
> 
> I really am trying not to focus on what was said. Something about dead lays. Something about how he’d been paid off. But he wasn’t getting any closer to what his buyer was looking for, so he figured he could take what he was given until he got bored, and he was bored. And screwing my ex. So I, very calmly, plucked his keys from his pants, took my car key and house key off that ring. Walked to the dresser and grabbed his spare set and grabbed the spare house key and car key off that. Removed his keys from my own and walked out. 
> 
> I’ve never felt so far removed from anything in my life. Just. That was happening. And I want to destroy every single thing he’s ever touched. And just burn and destroy it all. And… apologize. Because the only reason I even thought about seeking that from him was, you really, really, don’t understand how impossible it is for me to see you in person. And I have realized how completely unfair this is to you. 
> 
> That being said now would be an awful time to have you any further in my life then you already are. I think I’m going to destroy a couch and table and probably burn something, get this added confirmation that I destroy every good thing in my life eventually. I’m so tired Grant. I probably shouldn’t send this letter but remember each time I say I’m a mess. 
> 
> Welcome to the shit show sweetheart. I just want to drown myself in liquor and follow the Stark family tree of assholery and alcohol. I hate this. I hate being this unattainable thing to you. And sending this will probably make you want to punch me in the face. Well. At least you’ll know which face to punch. And if it’s a bad day, the state of my clothes.
> 
> Edward.

Tony went over to the dark room and grabbed a pair of the photos he’d finally developed. He tucked them in the envelope and sealed it, trying not to think too hard about how much of a mistake he was making. And the mailbox did the noisy routine. 

Hours later, he heard Jarvis pull his car through the garage, Tony was dazed watching him navigate around the carefully arranged piles of upholstery, wood that has been sawed into long thin slats, staples and former springs now hammered into something like metal rods again. Also avoiding the large metal bucket of burning stuffing. Tony wasn’t sure how long he'd been there. Friday stopped projecting the clock a while ago either realizing he wasn’t coming out of that or just going to sleep mode. The table was a long lost cause: glass shattered and the wood splintered to hell and back. 

“Tony?” Jarvis asked, coming out of the car. Tony heard the footsteps as he sat watching the fire. Frankly it smelled fucking awful. But it did, as fire should with the help of a little gasoline, burn. “Anthony?” he heard Jarvis much closer as a hand touched his shoulder. 

In a move Maria might be proud of him for finally doing on instinct, he started an over-the-shoulder throw that Jarvis rolled into. “I suppose that would answer my question of your state. Now, what happened?” Jarvis asked from a crouch. 

“I’m so sorry,” Tony said urgently looking over how Jarvis seemed to be fine. “I think I managed to ruin both the best relationship I’ve made in my adult life, and the most shitty relationship I was in, in one night,” Tony answered numbly. 

“That’s…. An interesting accomplishment. I’m curious why you think throwing me would ruin anything. Unless this was someone else?” Jarvis asked, moving to take a seat beside him. 

“He goes by Grant. We write to each other. He’s the artist,” Tony said, carefully pointing over at the small collection of art he’d amassed on the wall by his usual writing seat. 

“And the one who had you watching Gaslight and had you drawing I’m sure,” Jarvis offered a small smile as Tony nodded. 

“I haven’t figured out the science behind it, subjected the mailbox to every scan I can. But the only reason you haven’t met him is he’s in the 1940’s. I haven’t met him because he’s in the damn 40’s. And I found Ty cheating on me with Gia. I… hadn’t told Grant about Ty exactly, because he doesn’t know I’m in the future and can’t meet him. But I was so angry. I needed it out. So I told him about what happened with Ty, and I’m now very certain he’s going to hate me. He’s so good Jarvis. If I didn’t have a giant mess of feelings that I am now shoving under a metaphorical bed, I think Ana would have taken him under her wing,” Tony was 90% sure he had an undercurrent of pining to his tone, and he hated it. 

The silence that was about five seconds was probably confirming that. Damnit.

“That is splitting hairs, Tony. And I think he won’t be very pleased. But you’re sure about Ana?” Jarvis raised an eyebrow. 

“I should show you his drunken rant some time, but uh. I just needed to communicate it to somebody or it would have been the entire living room. What kept you so long with your family?” Tony asked, and took the time to watch Jarvis’s face. 

“We were discussing… options. Aunt Peggy’s been diagnosed with early Dementia,” Jarvis said softly. Tony watched Jarvis wring his hands and take a slow breath.

Tony felt his own mouth hang open as he processed. “Jarvis, I’m so sorry,” Tony turned and wrapped his arms around Jarvis fiercely as he leaned against him. “It must be awful for her. As a former agent especially to not be able to trust your own brain. I’m so sorry.” 

“She’s of course been preparing to step down as director of her agency for what seems to be months now. I only wonder if she suspected then about her condition. I worry about her open cases. I worry about her.” He hesitated. “I’m so sorry you were hurt like this again,” Tony shut his eyes as he felt Jarvis return the hug. “And I am sorry that your hurt reached someone you care about in such a way.”

“It’s not your fault. All I’m good for is drinking and destroying things,” Tony muttered sullenly.

“Absolutely not. Do you know who had supplied Howard with all of that liquor? Who was around the first time you drank?” Jarvis asks carefully. 

“No. And um… Ty,” Tony admitted with a frown taking a look back at Jarvis. 

“Obadiah,” Jarvis said slowly. Tony was sure Jarvis saw the terrible thoughts show on his face. 

“That reminds me, Friday, did we figure out if his money story was legit and who he got it from?” Tony asked, taking a look at one of the screens. Tony frowned looking at the number, and then a coil of dread wrapped around his spine. “That… is one of Obie’s accounts, oh fucking shit.” 

“Perhaps remaining sober would be a safer option for you, Tony.” 

“Can we put that off for tonight? Just tonight. I just need to not be in my head,” Tony asked, watching as the fire died down. 

“Are you sure you want to read whatever letter arrives hungover?” Jarvis asked, from his spot on the floor Tony made. 

“I deserve it.”

“Now tell me how you’re certain he’s from the forties?”

\---

Tucked up in bed, Steve was absolutely miserable. His lungs felt like they were burning in his chest from how much he had been coughing, and his entire body felt like overcooked noodles – just like Bucky made. Winter was the worst. He had not even been able to draw; the pencil had been too heavy in his hand and the blasted coughing had ruined his work. The only thing he had to distract himself from the monotony of his illness were the Barnes family visiting him and thoughts of Edward. And what sweet thoughts they were.

His favorite daydreams were of getting to meet Edward for the first time. Oh, he had come up with a million different scenarios by now, but some things were the same across them all. The way Edward would turn towards him, a wide smile on his face, and let his gaze wander down the line of Steve’s body. And he would not be wolfish nor ashamed of what he saw. Instead, desire would spark in his eyes, warm and pure and intoxicating. Then Edward would cross to him, placing a familiar hand on his shoulder. “Steve, I am so glad to meet you,” he would murmur, his voice a heady purr almost unsuited for the public venue. And what he would really mean was “I have been waiting all my life to meet you.”

Then, in Steve’s daydream, they would hide away somewhere quiet and just… talk. For hours. Share their hearts and minds with each other in a way that the letters hinted was possible but simply could not realize. And, if Steve was lucky, maybe they would be able to steal a few kisses before making plans for their next meeting. It was enough to make Steve feel floaty from something besides the fever.

And then Bucky brought the newest letter.

The brunet carefully helped Steve lean against the pillows before handing the letter to him. With trembling fingers, the blond opened the envelope and gasped softly when a picture was the first thing to greet him. It was Edward in all of his glory, and Steve could never have imagined just how beautiful the other man was. He appeared to be sitting in profile, wearing a fine dark suit and a crisp white button-down shirt. His dark locks were carefully combed away from his face in a fetching swoop, and the finger of one hand was resting lightly against the man’s lips. Edward appeared to be deep in concentration, as though he were watching an opera and a camera happened to be privy to the moment.

Croaking wordlessly, Steve showed the picture to Bucky, who had dropped down into the chair beside the bed. Taking it, Bucky nodded. “You were right. He looks real posh.” He hesitated. “Looks like a real fine fella, though.” The man flashed his friend a small smile.

At that moment, Steve resettled against the pillows and began to read. The first words made his heart soar. Edward thought any man would be lucky to have Steve, which had to mean he thought he was lucky to have the artist. Because, boy did he. Steve was so gone on Edward it was criminal. But then… his expression fell. Edward had another lover. Another man. Since he had discovered his proclivities, Steve had resigned himself that whatever man he loved would end up married to a nice girl and have a family. That was just the reality of his world. He was willing to share or just love his man from a distance, if that was what was needed. But to find out that Edward had been stepping out with another fella, acting like some sort of action boy.

The rest of the letter registered in a fog of white noise.

Edward was being cheated on by that other fella and one of his former flames. Right. That must feel so awful, to find out someone you were betting on was not as invested in you as you were in them. Kind of like having your chest cut open and a fine knife used to carefully peel the veins off your heart; letting you slowly choke on the blood and the pain and the misery until you just wish it would end. Yeah, Steve had an inkling of what that would feel like. And then came the excuse. Because it was  _ Steve’s  _ fault for being impossible to be with. Of course. Because Steve was just some poor sap who wasn’t enough in the green to run with someone like Edward.

Unfair.

Sure.

That was one word for it.

Letting the paper fall from his fingertips, Steve glared out the window, his jaw working as he fought back tears. He should have done it. Should have just walked off that bridge instead of let Bucky talk him down. The letters had ended up hurting far worse than just dying would have. Because now Steve wanted to die, desperately, but did not have the strength to leave his bed.

Frowning, Bucky reached over to place a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s wrong? You look awful glum for getting to see your fella for the first time.”

“He… ain’t.. mine,” Steve wheezed. With a single finger, he pushed the letter towards Bucky. The man hesitated for a moment before picking it up, quickly reading through the roughly shaped and spiky lettering that was so unlike Edward’s usual hand.

“… You gonna write him back?” A vein lept in Bucky’s forearm as he fought the urge to crumple the paper. He was furious on his friend’s behalf, but he also knew how delicate Steve was. Getting angry would not do much good, not right then.

Steve scoffed, sinking down a little further in the bed. His shrug, sharp and abortive, was the only answer he could give in that moment. And then, slowly, he nodded. He pointed over to where his paper was. Rising, Bucky carefully picked out a sheet and one of Steve’s pencils. Going over to the bed, he placed the small lap desk he had made for Steve over the blond’s legs before setting down the paper and pen. “I am going to go get some grub. I’ll be back in a jiff with something for you, alright?” Which was just an attempt to give Steve privacy, as Bucky knew the blond was likely to want to be alone. His only answer was to give a sharp nod.

Usually, Steve carefully planned his letters out so as to avoid wasting paper. But in that moment, the emotions were too raw for such niceties. And it did not help that his mind was fogged over with fever and exhaustion, making those emotions feel even more acute.

> **October 27, 1940**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> If you had a fella already, why did you even write me? Was I just a game to you, something to pass the time when your usual boy was busy?
> 
> Unfair ain’t even the right word for what you’ve done, Edward. It is cruel.
> 
> The way I  feel felt for you was like nothing I had before. You gave me hope that someone could love me for exactly who I was, and now… God, I wish I were dead.
> 
> I was such a fool.
> 
> -G

Ignoring the shaky quality of the letters and the way his tears caused some of the ink to blur, he folded the letter up and jammed it into an envelope. He could barely write the proper address on it, he was coughing so hard from the pneumonia and his tears. Black spots swirled across his vision even as the desk slid off his lap, falling to the floor with an awful clatter. 

Everything went dark.


	6. I'll Never Smile Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a plea is made and Doctors are called.

It was a week almost as bad as December. He left the letter Grant sent before his disastrous discovery in the basket. The one-letter answering his reply to drunken Grant remained unread and unopened. Tony drank his way through the liquor cabinet at home and alone. Even Maria stopped talking to him. He could still hear her upstairs, talking to Jarvis, talking to Friday. But leaving after an hour or so. More often than not he simply left the garage locked. 

The table and the couch he chose to replace the ones he wrecked shipped out. He watched the men lifting them in go by the lounge in the garage; the widest route for fitting everything. There was a call from Pepper. He remembered it because she asked him what happened. He can’t remember the lie.

And then there was that letter, the one he knew he deserved. Tony looked at the mess of paper on the work table. A destroyed hotel of half-formed thoughts after a tsunami, the half sketched designs, half-written lines of code, and embarrassingly half-written letters and sketches of various things. Tony felt his stomach sink as he looked at the mess. There really was no reasonable way for him to tell Grant just why he had even thought of doing what he did. A reasonable person doesn’t believe in time travelling letterboxes, or time and space travelling police boxes. But don’t remind Tony of that.

> Grant.
> 
> I deserve that. I completely deserve that. I completely deserve that you will probably ignore this letter. And any other ones I send. And sorry won’t make up for the complete ass I have been. You might see this paragraph a lot. Because until you respond I am probably going to keep writing it. 
> 
> If I were face to face with you, after a damn punch I know I deserve - at any other time, I would dodge or grab your wrist because Maria and I have found I move pretty damn quickly. But after that, I would want to talk to you. I would tell you everything about where I am. Which, is in California. Which is why it’s really hard for me to see you. The only reason I suspect I might be getting these is one of my friends travels as much as I do and is grabbing them. I hadn’t mentioned it sooner because I didn’t have any idea how it was happening.
> 
> Yes, by the way. It’s entirely possible to miss someone without ever meeting. I miss you. When I just write to you it makes me want to be better. I don’t know how you do it. 
> 
> I want to see you, even if it’s just someone else’s sketch. You said something about living in dreams. So uh. I’d like that.
> 
> Edward

Is what Tony finally wrote. It isn’t the usual paper but he didn’t want to imagine Ana’s slowly dwindling pad of paper burning. He shoved the letter in the mailbox and exhaled. Time to face the rest of the music.   
  


Also, time to order some more paper, but that wasn’t quite as important. At least the website was nice.

\---

Bucky was at his wit’s end. Stevie’s health was always a nightmare in the winter; he would languish with coughs and colds until the spring, at last, broke through. But this illness had a terribleness in it more awful than any horror they had faced before. It was a racking, endless thing that seemed to be tearing Steve apart from the inside out. His every waking moment was filled with coughing and wheezing, as though every breath was clawing its way out of his weakening body. And his sleep was barely anything resembling the word - fitful and violent. Worst of all, though, was the fever burning through the blond’s body. Buck did his best to keep it down with ice and snow from outside, but there was only so much he could do. 

That afternoon the doctor had been by to examine Steve, and the grim set of the man’s jaw had been enough to rattle Bucky to the core. “I am afraid it is entirely up to Mr. Rogers at this point, Mr. Barnes. On whether he has the strength of spirit to defeat the ailment. The sulfapyridine does not seem to be making a difference in his treatment. And with the fever still rampant… Well.” Draping his stethoscope around his neck, the doctor shrugged. “I am sorry. He is Catholic, yes? You should probably send for the priest, as a precaution.”

Bucky’s heart stuttered in his chest. The doctor wanted them to do last rites? Shaking, the brunet rose from his seat and moved to let the man out. He then sank back down at Steve’s bedside, grabbing a rag and carefully wetting it in the cold water. “Come on, Stevie,” he mumbled, carefully washing the sweat from the blond’s face. “Where’s that Rogers fight, huh? I know you can beat this, kid. You’ve gotta.”

It was just as day was bleeding into dusk that a hearty pounding on the door drew Bucky’s attention from Steve’s prone form. Shaking off his fugue, he walked over to the door and opened it, thinking it was the priest his mother had sent for. Instead, it was a surprising albeit familiar figure. 

“Buck, babe! So good to see you!” A bottle of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Arnie Roth swanned into the apartment. “Say, where’s … Stevie?” He stopped short at the sight of Steve, so pale and tiny in his bed. Reaching over, Arnie ground his cig out in the ashtray the blond kept around for when he had to smoke his asthma sticks. A grim frown worked its way onto Arnie’s chiselled features. “Is it bad?”

Moving over to stand beside the ginger, Bucky gave a sharp nod. “Doc Hildebrand said we should get the priest.”

The bottle of wine was sat down on the table with a hard thud. “Damn. And here I thought I was bringing good news…” Reaching into his coat, he fished out an envelope. “Stevie got another letter from that fella of his. I actually came by to pump him for details on this boy. Nobody else gets responses that fast.”

Bucky snorted. “His fella? Eh, he’s just some rich lush who -” He stopped short. “Arnie. I need you to stay with Stevie for me. Just for a little bit. Just… talk to him or something. So he’s not alone. Ma and the priest are supposed to be here soon, but there’s something I gotta do.”

Running out of the room, Bucky rushed to his family apartment and tore through the place. He snagged a sheet of paper from his sister’s desk before snatching up a pen. His hands trembled as he wrote:

> Edward,
> 
> You don’t know me, not directly. But I’m Franklin - Grant’s friend. He is in a real bad way. Look, he would hate me asking you this, especially after what you done to him. But it’s pneumonia. The doctor told us to send for the priest. His fever won’t break. He won’t stop coughing. We are at our wit’s end here. And if you could spring so much for flowers for a woman you ain’t never going to meet… Well, I figured maybe you could help Grant now. Especially if you care about him half as much as you’ve claimed you do. 
> 
> We are running out of time. Even if you help… I dunno if it will be soon enough. 
> 
> -Franklin

Not bothering to respond to his sisters’ demands for explanations, Bucky jammed the letter in an envelope and scribbled the address on the front. And then he was out the door running, practically flying down the stairs. He kept running, lungs and muscles burning until he came to the dark alleyway the mailbox was hidden in. It was right around the pickup times - he knew that thanks to Arnie - and he could only hope, by some miracle, it would get to Edward in time. Gasping for air, he collapsed back against the brick wall. Bucky did not even notice the tears streaming down his cheeks.

\---

Tony stared as he looked at the mailbox coming down from Maria’s ass-kicking. The flag jauntily standing up. Tony barely resisted the urge to just jump several stairs. He instead ran the rest of the way to the box, beating Dum-E to the punch. “Sorry kiddo,” Tony patted the claw as it let out a low trill. 

He frowned at the different writing before he opened the letter. Tony watched it continue before he saw why. Tony grimaced as he read, taking a slow breath barely helped. Timeline be damned if saving one man means he comes to in a world where the Nazi’s win. He is still saving this man. Grant was not Edith Keeler, this was not City at the Edge of Forever and he sure as hell was not Kirk or Bones.

Tony mentally went through the treatment history of asthma and what he knew of Grant’s conditions. Asthma, some kind of circulatory issue, which could mean heart trouble, which means he can’t use any of the older medicines he has to use the newer stuff that won’t make Grant’s heart act up. Amoxicillin would be par for the course, enough for probably a maybe 9-day course. Tony would need to make sure Franklin was making him take it even when he seems better. The inhaler to help reduce inflammation and make it easier. And probably something to help cut into that fever. 

Tony winced as he tried to think of doctors he hadn’t pissed off that he could convince to prescribe the stuff that would help Grant. 

As he worked his way down the list of contacts Friday suggested Tony grimaced as he came down to two. Doctor Su Yin and Reed damn Richards. He was fairly certain he might have been rude to Doctor Yinsen, so it was not a good idea to risk that. Tony groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d already tried three of his other exes but this one still hurt. Rip the bandaid he figured before talking to the headache. He dialled and waited. Tony tapped out a beat on his knee while he heard the phone ring.

“Nǐ hǎo,” Su Yin answered and Tony felt his chest clench. There was no reason for her voice to change, so she sounded just the same as when she revealed she had a husband.

“Nǐ hǎo, _ I have a favor to ask Doctor _ ,” Tony asked, waiting for the phone to hang up. His Mandarin felt a little rusty as he spoke, but he was confident he was understood.

“ _ It must be urgent if you are asking me, Tony, _ ” Su Yin replied tiredly. “ _ Especially at what must be a decent hour for you.” _

_ “It is. Are you somewhere you could help me write a few prescriptions that I could fill for a friend?”  _ Tony asked urgently. 

_ “No. My husband and I are on vacation, and why can’t he go to a doctor?” _ Su Yin asked as Tony sighed. 

_ “He has. I am sorry for disrupting your vacation. Take care of yourself.”  _

And now for Reed.

It was twenty minutes into the conversation, and Tony was doing his best not to hang up. Reed would never be anything short of frustrating. Tony is very willing to acknowledge that their, rivalry dash headbutting, probably was stupid. It started over a forum about which of them was smarter. It spread over multiple forums and eventually wound up with Tony, at 15 being grounded for a week. Another result became the elder Mr. Richards has been attending bridge games with Jarvis since then. 

Tony mentally chanted that Reed was the only one of the two of them that did wind up actually practicing medicine too.

"So remind me again why you didn't become a doctor again Tony?" Reed fucking Richards asked like he was bored.

"I didn't have the time to spare on practicums, and you already know I don't have the fucking patience for bedside manner. It's pneumonia in an asthmatic that has no access to his inhaler, and it might be a type that isn't antibiotic-resistant. So can I get a prescription for the amoxicillin and the inhaler or what?" Tony asks, barely keeping himself from growling in frustration.

“And is there a reason he isn’t seeing a doctor himself? How’s the fever?” Reed asked curiously.

“He has, but they’re a hack. Basically said to send the priest. And actually, yeah, something to reduce that would be great. Also, they’re really remote, and that’s why I haven’t brought someone to him. And why he needs the inhaler refill.” Tony added. 

“You’re lucky Sue wanted to vacation on the west coast. I can drop it off for you if you want?” Reed offered.

“Yes. Please. Now…. what do you want in return?” Tony asked with his jaw clenched, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“To call me and tell me if your friend needs more. And let me suggest practitioners once they are out of that remote place and stable,” Reed replied calmly. 

“Oh,” Tony whispered into the phone. Tony felt a little adrift as this was becoming the least expected result he could have asked for. A yes. 

“Give me an hour; you’re still on the cliff?” Reed asked as Tony faintly heard the sound of a pen scratching on a pad of paper.

“Yeah,” Tony answered, feeling white noise creeping into his head.

“What’s his name?” Reed asked while Tony presumed Sue started the engine of their car.

“Um, Grant,” Tony answered, forgetting the last name Grant gave a moment. There’s a pause as they both seemed to realize that fact. “Grant Van Gogh.”

“Alright,” Reed hung up as Tony unclenched his jaw. Tony got to writing the letter quickly. He wrote the instructions and possible side effects for each medication on index cards he had handy in clear print to ensure it was legible.

> Franklin,
> 
> Alright, I have something that is going to help but I have important instructions for you. First of all, no one besides you can see anything that is in this box. All of this is very well tested but experimental. Follow the instructions on the cards exactly or the infection might not go away completely. Or irritate his mouth and might leave him vulnerable to another infection. 
> 
> Second, do not let him take ANY other medicine at this point. I cannot tell you how they combine with other things. Do not risk it. No liquor for him. No smoke or cigs or asthma cigs. Lots of water and food and rest. Do not stop the medication when he improves until you are done. And let me know how he is after he is done with the doses. As for the other medicine. In the blue apparatus, that one, Grant can use it until it runs out, and let me know if you need a refill. This will help his asthma, but you must keep it hidden. I had to pull a LOT of strings to get it. 
> 
> Franklin, in case you don’t hear it from Grant, I’m in California. Don’t ask me how the hell this works; how you get the letters so fast. I don’t know. But that is why I was so sure I would never get a chance with Grant. Why I even tried with Ty. When I wrote that letter I was tired, angry, and betrayed. And that is not justifying my actions. Unless I find someone more remarkable than Grant, besides dating for appearances, I’m not pursuing anyone else. 
> 
> Also, thank you. Thank you for asking me for help. Thank you in advance for helping Grant. Thank you for everything you and your family have done to keep him safe. Thank you for helping us send and receive our letters. 
> 
> I have got one last thing. What are Steve’s thoughts on race? My friend Rhodey is black and I think he’s what you are to Steve, but for me. He’s my best friend, one of my favorite people I know. I have photos with him I want to send. Also handsome, but he’s a little old for me.
> 
> Thank you again.    
>  Edward 

Tony barely had time to rewrite the letter before he heard the doorbell ring and Jarvis answer it. “I’m expecting them!” Tony shouted as he ran his way up the stairs.

Sue was in a blue sundress, leaning against Richard’s arm as he held a paper bag. Richard nodded before he spoke, “I opted for a nine-day treatment because of how urgent you sounded,” Tony nodded back as he took the bag.

“I can’t stay or chat. I have to go. Thank you, Doctor.” Tony ran down the stairs to the garage offering a wave as he went. Moving quickly Tony peeled off the labels and put new ones over with quick reminders on them in his own hand. Nothing that will reveal when he’s from on them. Tony ran through his workshop grabbing the smallest box that would fit in the mailbox and sealed it, writing the address on top and shoving it in. 

Tony stood staring for a moment before he finally felt the adrenaline start bleeding out of him. He did what he could from here. It just had to work. 

Tony heard a faint "Hi Jarvis," from Sue in the security feed and smiled. She was a rare person who could out stubborn Reed. And still managed to have amazing social graces. 

Tony stood staring for a moment before he finally felt the adrenaline start bleeding out of him. He did what he could from here. It just had to work. Thankfully the mailbox started it’s routine. Sending the vital medicines as it clanged away. He just hoped it wouldn’t actually take a week to get there.

From how urgent Franklin’s letter read, he didn’t have a week. He might not even have a few days. Tony paced his lab with a generic ballpoint in his fingers - the Conklin pen in its case safely - spinning it restlessly.

He just had to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to even more universe divergences. Where Reed Richards is a medical doctor as well.


	7. Travelin’ Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony waits for news while Bucky learns something he never wanted to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if the Yiddish is incorrect; feel free to leave corrections

Bucky was still sitting in the alley, staring blankly at the wall, when he heard the strangest sound. Thinking it was perhaps the coppers coming to investigate, he cast a covert glance around - wiping at the tear tracks on his cheek with the back of one sleeve. But there was nothing to be seen. In fact, the alleyway seemed somehow even emptier. Maybe his crying had scared off even the rats that typically stalked the shadows.

And then came the strange sound again - metallic and low. 

His frost blue eyes lifted to rest on the only other occupant of the alley: the mailbox. He snorted. “Right. Now you’re going off your rocker, Barnes. Thinking the mailbox is-” As he was looking at the mailbox, it moved and the clanking sound could be heard once more. There was no wind; nothing that would cause the box to move. And yet… It happened again.

Rising to his feet, Buck slowly approached the box. He slowly lifted the lip to peer down inside. Rather than the envelope, which he  _ knew _ had been in there, there was a small box. “What the -” Reaching in, he carefully grabbed the box and squinted in the gloom at the letters printed on top. R46S. “That’s impossible.” And yet, against all odds, there in his hand sat a box, which had definitely not been there before, that was addressed to Stevie. He let out a slow breath. “Sarah Rogers, this better be you lookin’ out for Steve. Or so help me.” 

Reaching into his pocket, Bucky grabbed the first thing he could find: a cigarette card. It was a cartoonish drawing of Danny Kaye, with his head overly large and a bright smile on his face. At least, Bucky thought, it wasn’t the one of Jean Harlow. Without a word, Bucky dropped it into the box and closed the lid. A few moments later, he lifted the lid once more only to find the box empty. He let the lid drop once more, cursing under his breath. There was no way this was happening. Except, a few moments later, the box clanged again. 

This time, he pulled out a piece of paper with his returned card. On the paper was simply a bunch of question marks written in a familiar hand. Bucky searched his pockets, cursing when he found he did not even have a pencil on him. All he had were his smokes and matches. His eyes lit up. Pulling out a match, he struck it against the brick and let it burn for a moment. He then used the charcoal from the match to simply underline the question marks as best he could. The paper was then dropped back into the mailbox, and he stared intently at it, not even blinking.

It took a few more moments, but the telltale clang came again. Buck almost ripped the mailbox open, finding an envelope with a strange pen inside. He laughed almost hysterically at the note written on the paper inside: “Okay this is suddenly a lot weirder Franklin. I thought there was a delay.”

Hands shaking, Bucky pulled the cap off the pen and wrote a brief but effective: “What the hell is going on.” He dropped it into the box. Time was burning, he knew, but … there was no way this was happening. Was this some new Nazi technology? Demons? Science?

When the response came, it made Bucky laugh a little. Edward had written, "I don't know what's going on. Believe me, I have tried figuring it out. Everything short of taking the box apart and putting it back together. But I'm terrified that'll fuck it up and I'll lose touch with Grant. I have run so many tests it would make your head spin. But it is not bad. Wayyyy too advanced for Nazis or anything like that."

“Whatever you say, Ed,” the brunet mumbled. Taking the pen, he quickly scratched out, “Alright. I’m going to go see to Grant. If your medicine works, I will let you know. Up to him if he ever writes to you again.” Once the note was sent off, he pocketed the pen and paper. He then turned towards the tenament at a full run.

Darting up the stairs, he found the door to Steve’s apartment open. Inside, Arnie was still quietly talking to Steve while Becca sat in the kitchen. She looked up as Bucky walked in. “Priest just left,” she murmured. “I made sure the mirror is covered. Just in case.”

Bucky carefully pulled her into a hug. “Thanks, Becca. Why don’t you go get some sleep, huh kid? We can trade off at dawn.”

She stumbled to her feet and stared for a long moment at Steve. “Do… d’you think he’ll be okay?”

“All we can do is hope. I hope he does? But,” he hesitated. “This is the worst I ever saw him.” The weight of the box burned against his side from where it was hidden under his coat. “If he takes a turn, I’ll come get you. Promise.”

“Love you,  _ bubelah _ .”

“Love you too, kid.” Bucky pressed a last kiss to her forehead before pushing her towards the door. 

Going into Steve’s room, he dropped down on the foot of the bed and carefully opened the package. He scanned over the letter, all of the attached instructions, and examined the contents of the box. “Arnie, could you grab me a glass of water? I got some medicine to try. Called in a favor with a friend.”

Getting the blond to take the medicine proved to be challenging. He was almost too weak to swallow, and Bucky ended up having to break the pills up in the mortar before pouring it into a little bit of water. They coaxed Steve into drinking the paste down. And then all they could do was wait. 

A couple hours later, Arnie left with a gentle promise to check back in on them in a few days. Unless he heard sooner that he needed to attend the funeral. Once he was gone, Bucky pulled out the last item in the box. What Edward had called the inhaler. Moving carefully, he propped Steve up against the pillows and listened to the awful wheeze of his friend’s breath.

“Okay, punk. Imma need you to breathe in when I tell you to. Breathe out as slow as you can.” It was a miracle to see Steve’s eyes open, though they were so glazed Bucky wondered if the blond was even aware of anything around him. “And… in.” He carefully depressed the button and was surprised when Steve took a ragged breath in. “That’s it. Nice and easy…” As he tried to breathe out, the blond fell into a coughing fit. Bucky winced. He could only pray that he had not made a mistake asking Edward for help.

—-

Knowing that the transfer was almost instant left even more questions for Tony as he paced his garage. Just what the hell was going on? But the pacing was also helping him tune out the myriad of other worries that were trying to work under his skin. What if Frank was caught? What if he got arrested with stuff that really didn’t exist in his time? What if there were time cops? Tony shook his head at the absurd thought. 

Tony set up camp with his phone, working on the odd project as he looked up every fifty seconds for about an hour. Hour two it became every thirty seconds, confident enough in typing blind to watch the mailbox so closely. Hour Three was a break to check on Jarvis. Tony stood watching him discussing Living Wills and Power of Attorney on the phone. Observed Jarvis take a break to press his hand over his eyes. It was like watching him age 20 years in a second as he sat the phone down and sank into the chair. Tony took a moment to tap on a table for some noise as Jarvis glanced over at him. 

“Are you okay?” Tony asked, watching Jarvis give a weary smile. 

“Of course. It’s just a lot more planning than anticipated. Apparently, my aunt had already been donating items and things for some time. So we’re working on how best to incorporate that. Apparently some things she donated by mistake. She has been distressed about a footlocker. But it’s now part of an exhibit at the Smithsonian,” Jarvis mused as he plucked a cookie from a plate. “Apparently it’s the wrong one.” 

“That’s hard. Whose locker was it? And which is the one she has?” Tony asked curiously. 

“Through means I don’t know, she has Sargent Barnes’s footlocker, and had possession of Captain Steve Rogers locker as well,” Jarvis explained as he took a bite. 

“Holy shit Aunt Peg robbed the Military,” Tony cackled, covering his mouth and dissolving into the giggles. Because of course she would. 

“She had multitudes of stories. And I always had the feeling there were some that were just hers. That we were skirting the edges of.” He sighed. “So were you able to help your friend?” Jarvis queried, watching Tony fidget. 

“Yeah. I think so, I just have to wait for the antibiotics to kick in. And that’s at least a day or two to wait. Uh, the delivery is apparently almost instant to the past. It’s something to think about. And a bit interesting to talk to one of his friends,” Tony explained continuing to fidget.

“I haven’t seen you this jittery before; is something else wrong?” Jarvis asked as Tony got up to pace again. 

“Yeah. I am fine. It’s just a really bad infection. I’m going to go down and work some more on stuff I can show Obie that isn’t that important,” Tony waved his hand as he made his way down the stairs. He grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around himself. He sat on a stool that faced the mailbox. He should really wait before writing now that he knew it was nearly instant. The thing that took so long was Franklin’s pick-ups. Which made sense, to be fair. 

Tony took a break from the new firewalls to grab a notepad. He made a lot of false starts and tiredly erased the page several times before writing:

> Grant. 
> 
> I am sorry. 
> 
> I will keep saying it because I have no intent to ever do that again to you. Especially being on that side of it more times than I’d like to admit. I do date for appearance’s sake to keep my preferences secret. That’s not to say I didn’t end up with feelings for some of the women I dated, but I get backstabbed a lot. And should have thought of that. Of our expectations for each other. 
> 
> And I think somewhere our wires got crossed. 
> 
> I came into this looking for someone I could flirt with and share experiences and struggles with. And roll with a bit. A little shallow but well. It was a surprise from a friend. With a lot of built-in surprises.
> 
> You are my favorite surprise. I don’t know how this gets my letters from California to New York so fast but here we are. I don’t think I can shove myself into this thing and make my way to Brooklyn. Though I would. I would grovel. I don’t think I’d be able to mail myself bit by bit. Franklin would totally hide my prick out of spite. Like not touch it but figure, ‘This box is about that size, let’s go hide it up a chimney or something’ 
> 
> Okay, that got weird but I’m keeping it. 
> 
> And I have no doubt he would. It deserves it.
> 
> I miss you. This is entirely your playing field whether you read this, burn it, throw it in the trash. I want to write to you. I want to read how you are. I have imagined you. I would love to see even just a sketch someone did of you. I want to watch another movie at different theaters and read your thoughts on it. Just please nothing as jarring as Angel Street again. That one reflects a lot of fears about my situation to be fair. 
> 
> And I want you to please look after yourself. 
> 
> Edward

\---

Five days passed in absolute agony. Bucky spent as much time as he could with Steve, doing his best to make sure the medicine was given at the right intervals. Eventually, though, the strain between work and caring for the ailing blond wore the man thin. One morning, his mother caught him by the sleeve. “My sweet boy, you need to take care of Stevie. We’ll make do.”

“But my shift –“

“Did you hear me?” Winifred narrowed her eyes. “We will make ends meet. You need to be with Stevie. I will call the foreman for you.” 

Bucky’s lips twitched. He knew that meant his mother would handle things in such a way that, hopefully, they might consider rehiring her son in the future. She had a way of handling situations that made them work out for the best. Or at least better than Buck ever managed. “Thanks, Ma.” He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek before heading to Steve’s apartment.

Moving easily through the kitchen, he prepared the medicines and a small breakfast for himself. Balancing them on top of his book, Buck moved into the bedroom and carefully sat everything down on the bedside table – a rickety thing Steve had rescued from a dumpster a couple of summers back. Somehow the blond had managed to put it back together, even adding some lovely painted details to the front that were reminiscent of the fairy stories Sarah had told them both when they were young. “Alright, time for your medicine,” Bucky drawled, picking up the paste. He looked up, stopping cold when he saw the keen blue gaze watching his every move. “… Stevie?”

“Hey,” the blond croaked, his voice sounding reminiscent of glass falling down the fire escape. 

Setting the medicine back down, Bucky leaned over to press their foreheads together. For the first time in too long, Steve’s forehead felt cool against his. A wide grin broke across the brunet’s lips as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Want something to drink? Got a glass of water here.” When Steve gave a little nod, Buck carefully helped him sit up against the headboard. He then held the blond’s head steady and brought the glass to his lips. Once his friend had gotten a third of the glass down, he put the water back on the nightstand. “Alright. Medicine. Then we’ll see if you can handle some broth.”

By the time Steve had finished the broth, he was so exhausted that he went right to sleep. Buck’s cheeks hurt from how much he had been smiling; the reduced fever and fact the blond had been lucid were wonderful progress. Even Winifred had stopped by when delivering the broth and gaped at Steve’s recovery. There was still a great deal of healing left before Steve was out of danger, but it was looking far better than it had even just hours before. 

Snagging his book, Bucky was going to settle in to read until it was time for the blond’s next dose. But then an idea struck him. Looking over at Steve’s desk, he eyed the small stack of paper for a moment before closing his book with a decisive snap. Going over to the desk, he selected a sheet of paper and a pen. He hoped Stevie would forgive him for writing Edward – that situation still needed working through – but the man had offered nearly impossible help. He at least deserved to know it was working.

> Edward,
> 
> Franklin again. I do not know if you are planning to check your box or if this will reach you. Honestly, I have no idea how these letters are reaching you at all, but I am grateful for it. Grant is doing much better. Today he was awake and spoke a little. He even managed to keep down some broth. My ma says it will still be a few days until he is in the clear, especially since he lost so much weight being sick. But, it is better than we had any right to hope for. Even his fever has broken. 
> 
> I am keeping an eye on him as much as possible. Ma told me it was no use working when my heart was here, so I quit the factory. While I am anxious about the loss of income, I think Ma was right that I was needed here… especially since I am in charge of St – his medicine. 
> 
> For now, I am going to sit beside Grant while he sleeps and read. Finally got my hands on a copy of The Hobbit. I figured I would see if it is any good before reading it to our boy when he wakes up. He loves fairy stories, while I tend to read more pulp and science fantasy. I will not be able to check the mailbox soon, but one of our friends is going to bring any deliveries here for us. So, if you need to reach me, you can keep writing. Once Grant is better, I will let him figure out what he does or does not want to do about your situation. 
> 
> Honestly, I am just grateful you were able to help. My world would have shattered if we had lost him. I doubt I will ever be able to return the favor, but if I can, I would do anything I could for you.
> 
> -Franklin

When Arnie came by that afternoon, he was gracious enough to take the letter for Bucky. And he was absolutely delighted when Steve woke up. The two talked in soft tones – Arnie carrying most of the gab – for a few minutes. Then Bucky began to work on, yet again, convincing Steve to take his medicine, drink some water, and try a little soup this time. 

It was nothing short of a miracle, the way Steve was recovering. Maybe Edward wasn’t a complete wash.

\---

When Tony got his letter, he grinned and let out a sigh. Franklin would probably not believe how easy it was for him to check his mail in this regard. 

> Franklin, 
> 
> While we know the box sends things very quickly we still need to keep in mind that unless we figure out a schedule the letter still has to sit. And you are standing by something strange you know? For the sake of safety with you and Grant, keep your names hidden. As much as St. Grant, patron saint of the stubborn and ill, is a man whose well being concerns me. You have to stay safe too. Somehow I get the feeling ‘scrappy’ or ‘he gets into deep shit’ should be in there in Grant’s title as a saint too.
> 
> The Hobbit! I love that book so much. I might have worn through a copy of it already. That said I love science fantasy. So many things I want to build are in that realm. I love the future and want to see it with Grant in it. 
> 
> I’m very glad that the fever broke. The weight loss will be hard especially since I think a lot of it was muscle then. Make sure he gives himself time to work his strength back. 
> 
> I am including a design I dreamed of that has no practical applications at all. But I think you might appreciate it. Especially since in reality I don't think there's a material that can handle the strain.
> 
> Might give Grant a laugh later.
> 
> Edward 

The Faux ad read:

  
_ The Rocket Powered Shovel!  _

_ Want to look menacing while fending off creeps from your loved ones? Want them to know that not only will you bury them, you will also bury them in style. Using the rocket jets not only to dig their grave REAL deep, you can use the jets and get yourself out of that real deep grave right quick. Using our patented fold-down feet protectors, you can turn those rockets around and lift straight off. So you can fill in that hole you made.  _

Tony drew a small lady robot with nice cleavage and her hair shaped something like victory rolls, riding the shovel out of a grave.

On the back, Tony wrote a disclaimer:  _ Edward Industries claims no liability in any shovel related injuries including any injuries sustained while attempting flight. Especially without the foot protectors. Do not operate under the influence of any drugs or alcohol.  _

Tony sent the letter then looked at his phone, glaring at it as if it offended him. He did say he would call Reed back, however. And if he was going to keep sending Grant asthma medication, he was going to need to pay for it and maintain the prescription. Also, figure out a decent lie or perhaps even admit the truth. 

“Reed? He’s improving, apparently able to keep down some food finally. Thank you,” Tony said into the phone as soon as it was picked up.

“I’m glad to hear that. Just what kind of situation is he in that he isn’t able to get to his asthma medication?” Reed asked as Tony went over his emails. 

“It’s kind of a cult thing. The quack thought he would grow out of his asthma without it. And we both know that’s a crock of shit. And it’s just a giant clusterfuck. I’m working on getting him out. I got this. Can you keep the prescription going on the inhaler? I’ll pay for it, of course. But he really needs it,” Tony asked waiting for the no or some other bargain. 

“As long as you’re paying for it… fine. Just again, let me point him to some good doctors once you get him out,” Reed offered as Tony sighed. 

“Yeah, okay I can do that. Thank you,” Tony said a little reluctantly.

“Goodbye Tony.” Reed said before he hung up. 


	8. Hate Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain. Lots of pain.

When Stevie was at last fully lucid, it was like trying to tame a tiger keeping that boy down. Walking into the apartment a few mornings later, Bucky was aghast to see the blond sitting at the kitchen table, pale and sweating up a storm. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” Buck cried, rushing towards his friend. “You should be in bed for the next week. At least!”

“Don’t wanna,” Steve groused. He tried to wave Bucky off but merely managed to nearly tip himself out of the chair.

“Yeah, I don’t care what you want, punk. You’re going back to bed.” In a decisive move, the brunet hauled Steve into his arms and stomped towards the bed. “You were literally at death’s door not even a week ago. The priest came and did last rites, that's how far you were gone. If you think I’m going to let you work yourself to death, you are out of your mind, Steve Rogers.” He dumped the blond onto the bed. “You stay put. I’m getting your medicine. After that, you’re going to eat whatever awful breakfast I see fit to inflict on you, hear me?”

Steve scoffed. “I don’t need you to baby me, Buck.”

“I ain’t babying you, Steve. I just…” Bucky sighed. “I just want to help you. Losing you - nearly losing you - was the scariest thing. And if you push yourself too hard again, you could relapse. Except worse. And maybe then I would lose you. Please just … lemme help you.”

At that, the artist deflated: his shoulders drooping and his frown sliding right off his face. He wiped at his brow with one sleeve, hating how clammy he felt. “Alright, alright. But just this once.” Looking out the window, Steve squinted. “What day is it even?”

“Monday.” Buck turned to fetch the pills from their hiding place in the tallest cupboard. “The 18th.” He scoffed a little. “You didn’t miss Thanksgiving, if that’s what you and your stomach are frettin’ about. Ma is planning to stuff you like a turkey, no doubt about it. Pops was trying to convince them we should just celebrate it twice, this week and next week. Claimed you needed all the good food. Really, I just think he wants more fruitcake and pies.”

When Buck returned with the medicine, Steve dutifully swallowed it down. “I can’t blame him. Your ma and sisters make amazing desserts. They could open a bakery; everyone would swarm ‘em.”

“Becca has actually mentioned wanting to do that.” Sighing, Bucky settled down on his good old friend the bedside chair. “Ma just laughed and asked her where she planned to get the money. You can imagine what kind of fight that lead to.”

“Boy can I.” They both shook their heads. The only person more fiery and stubborn than Winifred was her eldest daughter. “If it’s Monday, what you doin’ here?”

Bucky snorted. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.” More seriously, he added, “Ma knew I would feel better if I could be around. So she called the factory for me. If they have any openings once you’re better, I’ll be their first pick for a hire.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, Buck. I would’ve -”

“Ain’t about you, Stevie. I needed to be here.” Leaning forward, Bucky gave Steve’s shoulder a squeeze. “Because for some reason or another, you’re like a brother to me. And I was a mess trying to be at work and then come take care of you. So I chose what was more important. You’re family, whether you like it or not.”

Steve’s long, spindly fingers came to wrap around Bucky’s wrist, giving it a light squeeze. “Love you, Buck.”

“I love you too. Even though you’re pig-headed.” That at least got Steve to laugh just a little, though it made his lungs give a wheezy protest. “Careful there, kid. Your lungs’ve been through a meat grinder.”

“They definitely feel like it,” Steve grumbled. “You gonna make breakfast or what?”

“I’m on it.” Rising, Bucky moved back into the kitchen. “We’re gonna see if you can handle some eggs. If that holds, Ma will bring by some soup for you later. With actual vegetables in it.”

“What luxury.” Shifting on the bed, Steve worked his way under the blankets before flopping back against the headboard. 

“Oh, some letters came for you.” Bucky tried for nonchalance, he really did, but it did not work very well. “They’re on the table beside you.”

A derisive scoff slipped past Steve’s lips. “Oh good. Kindling for the stove. Just what I needed.”

Letting out a slow breath, Bucky tried to keep his focus on the task before him. “You aren’t even going to give him a chance to explain?”

“Excuse me? Are you actually taking his side?” The blankets rustled with Steve’s agitation. “If you want his letters so bad, you read ‘em.”

“Stevie, that ain’t what I mean and you know it. I just… You seemed to like this fella a lot. And maybe there was some sort of misunderstanding. Isn’t it worth seeing if you should hate him or not?”

Silence.

After a long moment, Bucky cracked the eggs into the pan. “He … also may have saved your life.”

“What the hell you mean?”

Reluctantly, the brunet began to explain about how ill Steve had actually become and how the doctor had declared the situation hopeless. “And I thought.. Maybe Edward would be able to help us afford the hospital. They’ve got those breathing machines that can help and better doctors. If he was rich enough to send money for flowers, maybe … I dunno, I was practically gone wild at that point. It seemed like the only thing I could do. And he called a favor with one of his doctor friends. Got you some experimental medicine - for the fever, for your asthma, for the pneumonia. Without it, I dunno if you would still be here.”

The silence stretched thin between them, like the soles of their shoes after too many years of wear; the sort of silence that was so loud it kept time with the pounding of the blood in their veins. “So… I should read his letters because I  _ owe  _ it to him?” Steve’s words were practically poison from his lips. 

Bucky scrambled to pull the pan off the burner and stomped over to the bed. “That ain’t what I mean at all! I just mean.. He must care about you, for God knows only what reason. And maybe there was a misunderstanding or something. If he was playing you, he never woulda cared if you were sick. That’s all.”

Steve’s brilliant blue eyes practically flashed with anger. “Sure. He cares about me. That was definitely why he was dating another fella. Because that is exactly how you show you cherish somebody, by stepping out with somebody else.” His eyes narrowed further. “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Bucky? You and all your girlfriends.”

All of the blood drained from Bucky’s face. The accusation was horrible.. And had the horrific ring of truth to it. “You shut your mouth, Stevie.”

“Oh, what, you’re the only one who gets to dish out hard truths now? Yeah, I don’t think so, Buck. See, I get where your dames come from. Thinking you're special, that your fella really cares about you. That maybe it means something to you both. And then you find out,” by now Steve was practically choking on his tears, “that you’re just another face in his collection. And someday he’s gonna get bored and move on to the next thing that catches his fancy. Then what are you left with? Dust instead of a heart.”

The veins along Bucky’s neck stood in flush relief as he worked his jaw in an attempt to check his temper. He knew Steve was just bleeding out his pain about Edward, but there was more in there than just hurt about the Californian’s betrayal. A confession, from when they were still so small, boiled unbidden in Bucky’s memory. Steve, even smaller than he was now, telling his older friend how much he admired him and wanted to be like him. Hidden in the words had been an earnestness, an affection, that went beyond mere admiration. And Bucky had let him down with a soft laugh, telling Stevie that he was a swell fella and any dame that caught his eye would sure be lucky.

Collapsing in the chair, Bucky ran a hand over his face. “... I’m sorry, Stevie.” He let out a slow breath. “You have every right to be angry. At him. At me, for writing to him. Can I finish making you breakfast?”

“I am not hungry.”

“Stevie, if you don’t eat, I’ll send Ma over. You gotta eat.”

The blond pierced Bucky with a teary glare. “At least she’s good company.”

Bucky slowly got up from the chair. “I see.” Without another word, he turned and walked out of the apartment. He would let his mother deal with the seething ball of rage and hurt that was Steve Rogers.

The letters sat untouched on Steve’s nightstand for two weeks. Untouched. Unread. Unacknowledged. But Steve would stare at them, sometimes, when he first awoke in the morning. And in the evening, as he got into bed. Sometimes even in the middle of the day, as he was trapped in bed recovering. He often toyed with the idea of tossing them in the oven and just lighting them on fire. It would be satisfying, to watch them turn to ash just like all of the sweet dreams he had of Edward. Yet, he could not quite bring himself to complete the act. So, he ignored them.

He and Bucky had another talk, the next day. The hurt feelings there were not resolved by any means, but it had given them a chance to talk more honestly about what had happened. About how Bucky’s behavior towards his girlfriends was unhealthy. They would get back to equilibrium eventually, with more time and work.

It was late into a snowy December evening when Steve’s curiosity finally won out. He wanted confirmation, of a sort, as to why he should hate Edward. So, lighting his bedside lamp, he determined to read the letters and vindicate himself. Picking up the letters, he started with the one dated first.

He huffed at Edward’s insistence that he deserved to be ignored or to be punched. Steve agreed with him on that, at least. But the news that the other man was in California was nearly unfathomable. If that were the case, then how were his letters able to travel so quickly? Sure, he and his friend traveled for work, but that often? Maybe it was reasonable, but… still. Something seemed fishy. And then Edward had the audacity to want to see Steve, to claim to  _ miss _ him. It took everything in Steve’s power to resist crumpling the letter up right then and there.

The blond then flipped to the next letter. And the next. And the next. Until he came to the last one. This one, at last, seemed to provide some of the answers Steve had been so desperate for. 

Edward had been looking for a casual relationship, if it could even be called that. Someone to connect with and fool around with. And all he got was Steve. An asthmatic cripple of an artist living in Brooklyn. Made sense why Tony would look to find more immediate companionship for his more physical needs, since there wasn’t a chance of a snowstorm in July that Steve could be that for him. Especially with his circulation issues.

Wiping furiously at the tears running down his cheeks, Steve clung tightly to the thought that what Edward had done was wrong. But, there was also a part of him that blamed himself for expecting too much from the letters. Maybe that was all he was supposed to be all along: a cute little distraction. Wasn’t that all anybody thought he was good for? Some cute trinket - no feelings, no needs, nothing. 

Except that the way Edward wrote about wanting to grovel and wanting to see him… that did not sound like the boys at the Pansy Palace. He sounded so earnest about the need to make amends between them. And maybe there was a way forward, if they were both honest about what they were expecting from their correspondence. Steve was not fool enough to be a little side fling, but maybe they could at least work on being friends. Especially as the artist was now very hesitant to trust his heart to Edward’s clumsy care.

After nearly staring a hole through the pages, Steve carried the lantern over to his desk and sat down. He picked up a pencil and chewed lightly at the wooden end. Finally, he decided on what he was going to say.

> **December 2, 1940**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> I am still furious at you. But Franklin tells me I should be grateful to you. So. Thank you for helping to save my life.
> 
> As for your other letters, I honestly do not believe that you have earned seeing my face. I was ready to give you my heart, and finding out that you were making a fool of me hurt more than I can put into words. I keep trying, and all I do is end up crying. So I am not even going to try anymore. 
> 
> Instead, I will offer you this. We can continue our correspondence. However, we need to be clear on what we expect to gain from this. If you want someone you can fool around with, that is not me. If I wanted casual, I could go to a club and find it within moments. I had hoped for something more lasting from these letters, but … Well. My heart is too battered to consider that now. So, all I am willing to offer you is an attempt at friendship.
> 
> If it had been a woman, that would have been one thing. I know… I know I will never be able to completely claim the man I end up falling in love with. That is not the world we live in. But the fact it was another fella… I do not even know what to say. I feel like garbage thrown on the side of the road when I expected to be the guest at the feast.
> 
> -Grant.

Sliding on his coat, Steve grabbed the letter and blew out his lantern. It was so late at night that he did not bother Bucky for the letter delivery. Instead, he very slowly made his way through the back alleys to the mailbox. He knew it was risky, but there was a burning under his skin that demanded he send the letter immediately. As though his soul knew something just beyond the understanding of his mind. And once the letter was dropped off, he slowly began the trek home; panting for air in the moonlight. 

\---

There had been at least five letters Tony wrote, some written in a haze of fatigue and on the verge of sleep. A couple over-caffeinated and edged with small drawings. One he’d written on his phone for the first draft while waiting for the cold meds to kick in and get rid of his damn fever. The garbage can of tissue and a pot of Ana’s Matzo Ball soup his company in this most trying time. His dreams were weird, ranging from Jarvis fighting Nazi’s with a young Aunt Peggy to a dream of being chased by really really ugly dogs. Also of Captain America punching Ty in the face, which was great. That perfect form, the follow-through. That was a very good dream. If only his normal dreams were that good. 

Waking up without a hangover was still sometimes a revelation. Sometimes. He doesn't need to look at any potentially disastrous texts he might have sent. There was no damage control. It meant an empty bed, sure, but he chose to let it be empty. Of course, for the sake of appearances, Obie had to think Tony was as disastrous as always, that he was somewhere between useful and useless. Which was a sobering thought. It almost took out the afterglow from the dream about Cap beating up Ty. Tony took his time, reading over the display Friday projects. 

It was then he saw the little envelope surrounded in blue on the corner of the display and smiled. It was probably another letter from Franklin, or maybe, maybe Grant. It was a nice way to start the day. He remote started the coffee maker in the garage and made his way down. Tony glanced over at Jarvis, who was sitting in the kitchen with a bunch of projections of his various family members around him. “This is still Aunt Peggy we’re speaking of. Why are you so certain she’d be better off in a state side facility when she is still more than capable of being on her own? She is still very capable of decisions. It’s extremely rude that you are discussing this without her,” Jarvis seemed to pause, very confused or concerned as he heard something on his headphones. “No you do not need to steal that from the Smithsonian.” 

While Tony Stark had not met the entire Carter tree, there were sometimes things he wondered about them. Like just what branch loved theft, because that might be Aunt Peggy’s spiritual successor. Tony yawned and ran his hand along the walls of the staircase. Coffee is still vital before he tries anything like starting to be witty for one of the Brooklyn Men. 

Tony sighed as he strode toward the envelope waiting in the basket, but then lunged the rest of the way when he spotted Grant’s writing on the page. There was the part of his brain that was acting like the first vague memory he had of figuring out just how a screwdriver worked and taking something apart. A young Tony had then gone on a joyful taking-things-apart spree. He had been jubilant in his newfound power, and it had echoed in the particular noise of excitement he had made: a wild giggle that peeled on and on. Such a sound slid past his lips as his fingers closed around the envelope.

And what he might consider something close to common sense reminded him: he was probably going to be literally and metaphorically flayed. Grant was hurt. Just because the artist was writing to Tony didn’t mean all was forgiven. But, Grant was writing to him, which started the feedback loop of the happy noise.

Tony took a deep breath before sitting on the stool and opening the letter. 

Tony… wouldn’t have done anything else but try to save Grant. It was a weight off his shoulders to see Grant’s writing again. And know, in his bones, that at least the artist survived his illness. 

Tony grabbed his notepad and pulled it toward him. 

> **Dec 9**
> 
> Grant.
> 
> I did it because the thought of never even having a chance of communicating with you in any way was terrible. Screw so many of the consequences it might have. Also I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to write. 
> 
> And that is fair. There’s been a lot of self recrimination. I have imagined your face though. I sometimes wonder with the fights you’ve mentioned how often Franklin ends up helping you deal with a black eye or split lip. And I haven’t been kind to myself about this but I’ve also needed a good kick in the teeth for a while. 
> 
> I would be glad to be that to you. Friends that aren’t after anything are something I’m in short supply of. I have no doubt about how you’d find someone in moments. Especially by how I imagine you. I’ve been doing some small drawings between projects. Trying to keep busy while keeping the stuff I actually want to make secret is a pain in the ass. 
> 
> I don’t think I’m going to stop being sorry for a long time.
> 
> I asked a question of your friend that he didn’t answer so uh. Well your next letter please tell me your thoughts please on the picture of Rhodey and I.
> 
> Take care of yourself.
> 
> Edward 

Tony sighed as he looked back at Grant’s letter. Time, and a good friend. He’d like that. Tony rewrote the letter on his usual stationary as per normal. He folded the paper he’d used to sketch in half and slid it into the envelope too. And to top it all off he put a photo Pepper had taken of him and Rhodey as they were working on the Roadster he’d won in an auction.

Tony wrote on the back of the page he’d folded in half; one half with a sketch of what he imagined Grant probably looked like before trying to punch someone again in a fight. Grant’s knuckles already split, nose dripping blood, and glaring back at the viewer. He drew the brows a touch thinner than he normally imagined. Just because the overlap with Steve Rogers was something he thought wouldn’t be quite fair or right to impose on Grant. A little bit of a different chin. 

The second one he left as it was, mostly using exactly what he’d imagined when Grant was talking about his nose and face in one of the earlier letters. Maybe a few days after the first drawing with his knuckles healing and holding a letter. But closer to looking like Steve Rogers. Also because he just liked it.

\---

Arnie leaned back in his seat, jaw dropping. “He did what?”

“Apparently he had been seeing another fella the entire time,” Steve repeated. “But… like a dirty John. No good for Edward.” Letting out a slow breath, the blond did his best to hold his temper in check. “The fella was one he had mentioned partying with in some of his letters. Real awful type that was making him party harder than he wanted, y’know? So, I guess it was good that Ed found out he was being cuckholded. Maybe it’s kind of a fair trade: He steps out on me with a fella who is stepping out on him.” A bony shoulder rose and fell in a shrug.

“Do I need to dig up this scamp’s address so we can go kick his kneecaps in?” Arnie poured them both another splash of wine. “Because I would do that for you. I know just who to blow to get that info.”

Steve laughed, sharp and startled.”No, Arnie. Ed and I came to … an agreement, I guess? We are still gonna write, but only as friends. Because it does get lonely, y’know?”

“Yeah,” the ginger sighed. “I know.”

“What about you? You’ve been writing someone too, ain’t you?” Taking a sip of the wine, Steve just resisted the urge to make a face. He appreciated the intention behind the free booze, but Arnie always chose the worst wine. The sculptor practically had a gift for it. 

A bit of a flush spread across the high line of Arnie’s cheekbones. “His name is Mark. He’s, uh, a poet. And a school teacher. Real mellow type.” Tracing the edge of his finger around his glass, Arnie smiled to himself. “Our letters are just gushing about books and art, talking about the deeper meaning behind things. Sometimes we agree to visit the same museum, and then write about what caught our attention. Once he sent me to a poetry reading, saying he thought I would like the stuff. It was real sweet. I, uh, think I might try to meet him soon? But I dunno.”

“Why wouldn’t you? If the fella is good to you, you might as well seize the chance.” A soft, sad smile turned Steve’s lips. “Ain’t that what you always tried to tell me?”

“Yeah,” Arnie said with a laugh. “It is. Maybe you’re right. If I do meet him, would you and Buck be willin’ to come out to dinner with us sometime? So I can get the ol’ Rogers seal of approval.”

Steve’s smile turned more genuine. “I’d like that, Arnie. I’d like that a whole lot.”

The next day, while still rocking something of a hangover, Steve stared at the envelope Arnie had left on the kitchen table before waltzing out into the night. It was another letter from Edward. Sighing, he slid the blade of his thumb under the lip of the envelope and tore it open. He was surprised when two drawings and a photo spilled out along with the paper. Looking at the photo first, he fought back a bit of a smile. Edward was seated on a couch, arms waving wildly as he spoke to the Black man beside him. The other man was handsome, but far more serious looking… though Steve imagined he had something of a wicked sense of humor, if the glimmer in his expression was anything to go by. Rubbing his thumb over Edward’s face, Steve could not help but wallow for a moment in the ache in his heart.  _ He could’ve been mine _ , he thought sadly.

Quickly setting aside the photo, lest he start crying, Steve turned his attention to the drawings. He blinked in surprise. They both looked fairly like him, though with a rounded jaw and spindly eyebrows. And the hair was all wrong; only Bucky slicked his hair like that. But the essence of Steve was in the drawing, staring up at the viewer with a challenge in his gaze. Steve snorted. “And he says he can’t draw. Punk.”

The actual letter didn’t really contain any surprises. Except the identity of the man in the photo with Edward. That, and the admission that the engineer was trying so hard to imagine what Steve looked like. It was almost sweet - No. No, not sweet. Edward was probably just curious, that was all. There was nothing special about the brunet drawing pictures of him.

Rather than respond immediately, Steve set the paper aside and got dressed for dinner. He then walked, slowly, to the Barnes apartment. Winifred was quick to rush him to a seat, and the evening blurred as the family worshipped for their Sabbath. While it was not Steve’s faith, he still appreciated the way the Barnes always came together as a family to pray together and for each other. The way the glow of the candles reflected the light of their faith. There were a fair number of sketches of such beautiful scenes in Steve’s portfolio; the play of light and emotion was something he continuously tried to capture. He just wished he could hold onto such moments forever, keeping the warmth of it with him.

Afterwards, Steve and Bucky moved out to sit on the fire escape. Steve was swaddled in a thick scarf made by Dinah, one of Bucky’s sisters, from leftover snippets of yarn. It was a strange mismash of colors, but the youngest Barnes had brought them together in a way that was more reminiscent of the Coat of Many Colors than something rescued from the dump. And it was one of the warmest things Steve had ever owned. Winifred had also insisted Steve wrap up in a coat and blankets if he was going outside, making him look more like a ball of cotton than a human being. But it was nice to have people worry about him.

Once they were settled, Bucky leaned back against the brick wall out the tenement. “So,” he drawled - awkward for perhaps the first time in his life.

Steve snorted to himself. “Buck. Come on. I ain’t actually mad at you. I was just … hurt and angry and tired.” Shifting in his blanket cocoon, he turned to face the other man. “And I am sorry for lashing out at you like that. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair.”

“But I deserved it, Stevie,” Bucky protested. “The things you said… You weren’t wrong.”

“I mean, kind of? The way you have multiple dames at the same time maybe ain’t the most fair thing, but … what I said about us. Y’know there’s no hard feelings there. I understood.” Reaching over, Steve tugged on the brunet’s ear. “Maybe just don’t get those girls’ hopes up so much? Be better than Edward.”

Bucky nodded a little. “Alright, Stevie. I’ll do my best.” He tapped out a cigarette, mostly just to have something to hold, but did not light it. “What you going to do about the letters?”

The blond’s lips gave a little twitch. “We are going to keep writing, for now. But as just … friends. He hurt me real bad, and I let him know it. So for now that’s all I’m willing to give him.”

“For now?” Bucky raised a teasing eyebrow, though the words were said carefully, as though he were afraid of causing offense.

“I fell for him pretty hard,” Steve admitted. “That ain’t going away overnight. I’m too much like Ma that way.”

Both men fell silent at the reminder. Sarah had been an absolutely wonderful woman, but she had been cursed in love. She had given her heart to a man who had been good, once. And after he was gone, she had never quite managed to love anyone else the same way. When asked about it, she had simply told the boys that she had only one heart to give away.

“But, I think it’s better now. We agreed to work on being friends and defined some more of our expectations. To protect myself, though, I am spacing out my letters a little more. I don’t want to fixate on ‘em like I had been,” Steve admitted. “And, uh… I might try going to the club again after the new year.”

Bucky’s grey eyes widened in surprise. “The club?” The word was almost strangled with surprise. “That … would be an interesting choice. You let me know when, and I’ll go with you.”

“Thanks.” Steve cleared his throat. “Arnie might wanna get dinner with us sometime. Introduce us to someone he’s been writing to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”


	9. When You Wish Upon A Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should be "happy holidays," right?

Steve waited an agonizing five days to write Edward back. He had gotten so in the habit of immediately writing a reply that it grated him to wait. But he had to prove to himself that he was not going to obsess over the letters, that he could take measures to protect his heart from being broken again. When he finally gave into the impulse to write, it was already December 13th. They had been exchanging letters for more than six months now. It felt like a lifetime; like he could not remember a time before Edward. Which was a little ridiculous.

Sitting in the windowsill, Steve looked out at the snow blanketing the firescape and alleyway below. He could imagine what it would be like if he lived out in the country instead, with clear air and beautiful fields of snow as far as the eye could see. And inside the house would be a beautiful fireplace decorated with garlands. The air would smell like cloves and oranges and pine from the beautiful tree in the corner. A smile twitched his lips as he began to sketch it out: the fine living room, the trimmed tree, and a window looking out over the snow. He was loathe to fold it, but it would go in the envelope along with his letter. 

> **December 13, 1940**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> You and your friend seem like you know each other real well. It is good he can make you smile like that. Reminds me a lot of how I must look when I am shooting the breeze with Franklin; sometimes my face hurts from laughing so hard. Once he even triggered an asthma attack because I could not catch my breath between laughs. I am glad you have someone like Rhodey. And that is from inside your house? It must be really fine.
> 
> I have included a bit of a silly doodle. Looking out the tenement window, I imagined … I imagined the kind of place I would like to live. Out in the country, away from the smoke and the grime. While I love Brooklyn, part of me wants the peace and quiet of being outside the city limits. It will never happen, but sometimes it is nice to dream.
> 
> Your drawings of me are not too bad. But, I do not quite look like that. My shoulders are broader than that. I do appreciate, though, that you make me a fiery thing. Franklin would agree that I have that kind of spunk. He has had to patch me up more times than either of us can count. In fact, I usually start a fight, and he ends up having to rescue me. If nothing else, he has gotten very good at fistfights because of me.
> 
> … Everyone in the neighborhood has been real on edge. With everything going on overseas. I do wonder how long it will be until we join the Allies in the war effort. Part of me is terrified of it happening, because I know that Franklin and Pendragon will go off to do their part. But I doubt the Army would take me, no matter how desperate they got. And they will expect me to be grateful for it. All I want is to make a difference, to help. Whatever way I can.
> 
> Sorry for the macabre turn. Since I live in a Jewish neighborhood, they are getting awful news from their families abroad. Some are doing everything they can to help their family immigrate, but with the recent law changes… Well. Things are rough right now. I do not know what to do about any of it, if I am honest.
> 
> I am scared.
> 
> -Grant

\---

It was hell week. And he was trying not to drink during it. Obie knew at least something of this week’s significance and existence. If someone was going to do something to him that would be a good week to do it. So it was hell week: insomnia and hellish nightmare edition. Sleeping pills sucked and would also potentially be a bad idea. There was too much potential for him to not wake up in time or someone to dose him with another tranquilizer while he slept. 

Tony understood distance, the concept of travel. The concept of time measurement, relativity, were things he learned very quickly at a very young age. But as he sat on his chair reading Grant’s letter, Tony felt a hit of dread. Not for Grant, the asthma alone put him out of the reach of the military draft. The dread hit for Franklin. He was healthy; he was strong; he was Grant’s backup. Franklin’s sisters were probably going to be doing things like being nurses or teachers or secretaries - any number of things. But it left a lot of the guy's household potentially strung tighter for cash. It meant poor Grant, an artist - a scrappy one, sure but an artist all the same - would be on his own. But Tony had to have faith that there would be work in some way or form, if only because so many men would be overseas. 

Tony stared at the drawing of the house, the snow beautifully shaded and the smoke from the chimney wonderfully fluffy. The cabin looked warm, like a home where during a blizzard you would throw  _ Dark Side of the Moon _ on and curl up with a cat or dog. “Us and Them” could fill the air while nature raged outside, unable to touch him and the blond in his arms. It would be easy to slot himself into that kind of place, Tony thought. He could make all his tech blend in with all the rustic decor. The engineer could even imagine that it was the sort of place you’d have a little open area between the couches where he could grab a partner and dance to  _ Velvet Underground _ . Tony was already imagining Grant - dancing with him, holding him, kissing him - before he stopped and pinched his nose.

Friends, right, friends. Not a person you had a high fantasy about one time. That is not a friend - not even close if he let his mind linger on it too long. Tony was not even sure if it counted as being a friend that he had a list of songs he couldn’t wait for Grant to hear or react to. Not to mention a list of movies that Tony either hadn’t seen yet or had seen and wanted to read Grant reacting to. Small advantages of the future, he supposed, were that he knew what movies would be coming out long before Grant ever would. And unlike his fiery artist, he did not have to arrange time to see them in theatres; he could just ask Friday to pull whatever one he wanted up at any given hour of the day. Really, he was just being a decent friend by making sure Grant caught all the best entertainment his time had to offer. 

Maybe not friendly. But probably friendly. Friend-like. Rhodey would probably enjoy some of them too. But then Tony’d have to explain the notepad. On the bright side, he’d already managed to explain the camera by saying a friend from a forum was looking for pictures to help fill faux historical albums as props. That had been a particularly clever cover on his part. 

But making sure Grant saw Ella Fitzgerald was important. He’d look up concert dates later and find a way to make it happen. Even if he had to bribe Franklin into helping. 

> **Dec 16**
> 
> Grant, 
> 
> I could swear Rhodey has done something similar and I couldn’t speak for half an hour. He is a riot. And it is in my house - it’s part of my garage, I have other pictures I could send you. I basically live there a lot. I’ve got some pictures of my friends I want to share with you. Maria is so sapphic here I can feel her affection for Pepper in one picture alone. Maria’s the beautiful butch woman, and Pepper is the classiest woman I have ever met in my life. They aren’t dating, though I sometimes think they should try. 
> 
> We were doing a little bit of a drunken Shakespeare night. I wish I could show it to you. Who would you want to play or would you and Franklin would do a scene together? 
> 
> If it wasn’t something with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern with Rhodey, I would probably do the To be or Not To Be Soliloquy. Maria and Pepper were doing Romeo and Juliet and it was fantastic. 
> 
> What are your favorite Shakespeare bits or scenes? I sometimes read Richard the Second and think of the scene with Aumerle. This one:
> 
> "My large kingdom for a little grave 
> 
> An obscure grave 
> 
> Or I'll be buried on the king's highway"
> 
> That one, where Richard drove the Duke to tears. I saw a version of the play in a tiny theater where the actor who played Richard played the scene so tenderly, so fondly. This was a very private show you have to understand. He kissed him and held the Duke so fondly. For a moment I felt transported you know. It's one of my favorites.
> 
> So, broader shoulders, noted. Is it weird I’m not sure about your hair though? Let me know how these ones go. 
> 
> Please be careful ahead. 
> 
> Edward
> 
> P.s. It's been ten years since my parents died. I barely remember them. Does that make me a terrible son?

Tony rubbed at his eyes before closing the envelope with the pictures and drawings. Maybe that would make it up to Grant for the way that letter rambled. At least he had done the drawings while he was closer to baseline. 

… Even if the only thing his hands kept trying to draw was Steve Rogers. What the fuck was that about? It was a first crush, you’d think he’d be over that. Tony stumbled over to his couch, frowning a moment as he looked over at the mailbox. Did he rewrite that letter? He couldn’t think. That was bad, he needed his thoughts. Too late now. 

Tony turned back toward the couch and let himself flop onto it face first. A feeble reach for the pillow, and he was at last asleep. 

  
\---

Holding his resolution to not write too quickly proved challenging for Steve. He missed the warmth and familiarity of Edward’s letters, which honestly probably made him something of a sap. That was why, when the next letter came, Steve did not fight the urge to read it right away. If pushed on the subject, he would argue that it was because it was so close to Christmas and he was in a giving mood. That, and he was utterly charmed by the photos Edward had included. Maria and Pepper were both utterly stunning, but there was something hilarious about the way one woman stood on a bench while the other was kneeling on the ground. Steve supposed it was an attempt at recreating the balcony scene when there was no balcony to be had. 

And then there were more drawings of what Edward thought Steve looked like. Somehow, the hair had gotten even worse. Steve was mortified at one particular rendition, which had the locks spiked upwards in a way that looked absolutely impossible. Not even the sprays and pomades Buck and his sisters used could make hair do that. Worst of all, Edward had written a snarky “Is this you?” at the top of the page. Steve’s eyes rolled so hard he swore he could almost see his own brain. 

Deciding he might as well write back before the bad weather rolled in later that week, Steve got to work on a new letter. And, because he too was feeling snarky, he drew a stylized comic of Jack Frost suntanning on the beach to go with it.

> **December 21, 1940**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> If that is your garage, I literally cannot imagine what the rest of your house looks like. You would feel so out of place in my apartment. It is literally two rooms: my bedroom and the kitchen. A pair of little glass doors separate my room from the kitchen; mostly because the bedroom used to be Ma’s. The countertop sits on the bathtub, which means I have to actually make sure the dishes are done before I take a bath. Franklin is real lucky, because he and his dad installed one of those new showers in their place. I have never seen anything so convenient in my entire life. All four apartments on our floor share a set of toilets, which … that sure can be a curse. Trying to picture you, in your fine suit, standing in the tenement just boggles. Pretty sure you would turn right around and walk out the door.
> 
> Maria and Pepper are both stunning. Though I am pretty sure Maria could break me in half without even trying. You seem pretty lucky to have such amazing people in your life. I hope these ones treat you good.
> 
> And Shakespeare? Well. I always really liked Henry V’s speech – the one he gives on St. Crispin’s Day. The way he is able to bring his troops together, when they are so exhausted and beaten down, and give them the fire to keep going. And they win. Against thousands of fresh troops, this little band of brothers win with minimal losses. Sometimes I think about that, you know? Like what kind of leader would be able to inspire his men to fight so valiantly, so powerfully, that they won in those circumstances. I wish, just once, I could have a moment like. 
> 
> That performance you saw sure sounds amazing. I can almost see it in my head. The way Richard would cradle his face and brush his thumbs across Aumerle’s cheeks, collecting the tears as they fell. And how their bodies would gravitate towards each other, until their breath was mingling on their lips. It would be inevitable: how their lips would meet in a soft, gentle caress. A kiss that was not about passion or desperation, but instead comfort. Because Richard knows that their happily ever after will never happen. And he cannot stand to make promises he will be unable to keep. Was it like that?
> 
> As for your drawings, well. The shoulders are better, I will give you that. But my jaw. Skies above, Edward, why did you make my jaw look that weak? My poor ego is bruised.
> 
> Really, I do think it is sweet of you to try drawing me. I do not get why you would bother, though. I am just some fella you will probably never meet living on the other side of the country. You would probably take one look at the real me and just … walk right away. I am nobody.
> 
> And careful? Well. I do not think I am particularly good at being careful. But, I will make an attempt.
> 
> -Grant 
> 
> P.S. I don't think you’re terrible for that. I'd rather not remember my dad. I always told folks my dad died in the war. Because he did. The monster who came home wasn't my dad.

Sealing up the letter, he set it on the table to drop off to Bucky later that day. The brunet had been absolutely furious when he learned that Steve had taken a letter himself, and after a lot of yelling it had been agreed that would not happen again. Unless there were dire circumstances. And with the way the weathermen on the radio were talking, Steve would probably not be allowed outside until the new year. Oh joy.

\---

Tony let out a chuckle as Jack frost tanned on the beach on the paper in front of him. Going by the weather report Friday had given him, it was a hell of a blizzard that year. He didn’t want any of the Brooklyn guys going out in that. Using the sleep he’d managed, he went up to his closet and went through the gloves and mitts he’d wound up accumulating. Grant had mentioned another friend of his, Pendragon. Tony decided to try looking at it like this. If he got one pair of good mitts just for Steve it would probably be construed as a significant gift. If he gifted Franklin, and maybe the Pendragon guy Grant had mentioned, it would be a shared experience. Maybe. God he hoped none of their hands were that big. There was only the one set of extra mitts he had that were extra large. Sheepskin mittens probably would not have changed that much from the 40’s. One set with black leather and two sets of sueded. And they would blend in just fine. Just snip off the inside tags and there’d be no way to know when they are from.

  
  


> Grant, 
> 
> I hope to god that you aren’t trying to get Franklin, or maybe that Pendragon friend you mentioned one time, to grab this gift in that damn blizzard. I actually managed a little bit of sleep after I wrote that last letter. I’m using that bit of life to make sure you and your guys have warm hands. Sorry if they are a bit big or small; I figured mitts would be more forgiving than if I tried to get gloves. 
> 
> Merry Christmas to you, and Happy Hanukkah to your neighbors. 
> 
> My house is big. As I said, I spend most of my time in the garage, while Jarvis is usually around the rest of the house. And I have a shower in the garage too. I love it. It’s better than stewing in muck, oil, and sweat after working on cars or other stuff. Plus, I have fallen asleep in the tub sometimes. 
> 
> Oh damn. Crispin's Day.
> 
> That is a very good one for Shakespeare. It makes me think of that family friend - that larger than life friend that I had a fondness for. He had this earnest way of speaking that I really liked. Had this way of making everyone around him bust their ass. 
> 
> Yes. And just the despair, the utter loneliness he felt was so plain on his face as he held him. I still get chills thinking of it. Aumerle was also brilliant, but I just I think back on Richard’s face and how he was subtly rocking them. 
> 
> Grant! Are you just going to have me fix things one by one?! I see how it is! Let’s keep going then. Just the jaw? Are you sure you don’t have freckles or birthmarks? And I do this because I like having a better mental picture of you. Otherwise you start resembling that family friend - who is very handsome don’t get me wrong - but that makes things complicated. Also he is extremely dead. 
> 
> And you are not nobody. You are Grant Van Gogh, probably have some lovely looking little design in mind for when you do start your own design company. You have friends who know you, I know it’s not your name but doesn’t mean you can’t use it for a company name. You are going to find your niche. You have talent and drive. 
> 
> Just don’t end up in a hospital is the main thing I am asking Grant. Or jail. Fuck not jail. 
> 
> If I were in your apartment, I am pretty sure I would just take off my shoes and make myself comfortable. I do own more than just suits. You can’t imagine me working on cars in a suit. I’ve got jeans so ratty I think they are more holes than denim. Also coveralls are great.
> 
> Okay so speaking of cars. There’s one me and Rhodey are working on and I just am so excited about it. Would you want pictures?
> 
> Edward.
> 
> My father would probably have some stories like that, but I think that is partially what led him to the bottle. Probably some family curse I guess. I might jump down a bottle tonight to try to get some sleep. If you see any shoddy writing, feel free to burn the letter. I don’t plan on any writing til I hear anything back from you. 

\--

Somehow, almost miraculously, Bucky managed to make it back from his last shift at the docks just before the blizzard hit. Within an hour of his arrival home, the windows of the tenement looked as though they had been painted white. Steve had abandoned attempts at heating his own apartment, and instead was sheltering with the Barnes family. He did not particularly like cramming in close with that many people - the blond had lived on his own for too long - but it was better than freezing to death. Plus, with the start of Hanukkah the Barnes’s apartment would have a lovely festive atmosphere.

As Bucky stumbled through the apartment door, Dinah and Chava rushed to help him take off his coat, hat, and scarf. These implements were quickly rushed off to the heater in the bathroom. Winifred meanwhile offered her eldest a change of clothing, freshly warmed from resting near the stove. He murmured his thanks before pressing a kiss to her cheek, making the woman nearly squeal at how cold his lips were. A wicked smile dashed across Bucky’s lips as he darted towards his bedroom to change. Once he had reemerged, he crossed over and dropped a package on Steve’s lap. “Someone asked that I deliver this to you.” 

Eyes wide, Steve stared up at Bucky. “You didn’t.”

The brunet gave a careless shrug before cramming next to Steve on the worn out loveseat. “Consider it your Christmas miracle. A day early.”

“Thank you, Buck.” Steve leaned into the reassuring bulk of his friend’s warmth, letting the comfort of the contact wash over him.

“Of course, punk. Love you.” He carefully drew Steve’s gangly legs over his lap and gave his knee a pat. If asked, he would argue that it was for protection from the blond’s bony limbs, but in reality he had simply missed being with his friend. They had spent most of their time together crammed close - in the windowsills, in either of their beds, on the loveseat. Anywhere they could manage to fit. 

“Love you too, Buck.” Letting his head rest on Bucky’s shoulder, he sighed softly. The package sat half-forgotten in Steve’s lap. “Wake me up when it’s time?” Bucky hummed against his hair, letting his eyes slip closed too. He had been hard at work, pulling double and even triple shifts in an attempt to set aside money for his family. With the way the war was going, he was worried about how they would survive once the draft started. 

When dusk at last came, Dinah gently shook them both awake. “It’s time,” she whispered, her voice humming with excitement. 

Bucky carefully helped Steve to his feet before moving to help set up the table for the start of the festivities. Once the family was ready, George carefully uncovered the  _ hanukkiya _ , a beautiful bronze menorah that had been in the Barnes family for more than a hundred years. The eight branches looked as though someone had turned a series of twisting vines into metal, capturing the understated elegance of nature. Placing it on the table, the older man ran his fingers gently over base as though greeting an old friend. 

Steve always found it amazing, how the family came together to offer thanks and praise. The Barnes sisters always teased the blond that he should just convert, so he could marry one of them. He had always been flattered by the idea, but his heart still belonged to the faith his mother had raised him in. Even if his relationship with it was complicated.

As the helper candle was used to light the first taper, Steve glanced around the table. The way the family’s faces were lit by the warm candlelight immediately impressed itself on his mind, and he knew he would be painting it later. He did his best to keep up through the prayers and hymns the family offered; Steve had several years of practice by that point. It filled him with a brightness and warmth, letting his voice join theirs in song. 

Once the final song had finished, Winifred carefully moved the menorah to the window. “Alright, my loves. Now you can eat the latkes. Then you can play your games and make your father recite the story of Hanukkah.” Acting like children, the four young Barneses, Steve, and George all swarmed the kitchen in order to steal latkes and other treats that had been prepared before sundown. 

By the time they were all worn out and once again piled on the various furniture in the room, Steve remembered the package. The blond grabbed it from the end table he had left it on, and carefully began to unwrap it. He blinked at the pile of mittens inside. Grabbing Edward’s letter, he skimmed over the first paragraph with a bit of a smile. “Edward wishes us a happy Hanukkah and a merry Christmas. Thought we might get some good use out of some new mittens.” Going through the pairs, Steve carefully tried them on. Ultimately, Bucky ended up with one of the suede pairs while Steve took the largest pair. 

“Tell him thank you for me,” Buck murmured. “These are really fine. They’ll last forever and a day, I bet.”

“I will,” Steve promised. “Seems he likes you a lot. Guess you bonded while I was sick.”

Bucky shrugged easily. “Someone had to keep him updated on you. We got talking about books and science. It was … nice.”

“Yeah?” The artist shook his head. “Well. Seems like he could use some friends, from what I’ve heard. He’s got a couple of good eggs, but not many.”

The rest of the letter made a smile toy around the edges of Steve’s lips. Edward was sometimes fragmented in the way he wrote, as though his pen could not keep up with the speed of his thoughts. It made Steve wonder if he was like that when he spoke too: jumping from idea to idea with a sort of vibrant enthusiasm. His eyes probably lit up with joy as he got rolling.

When he finally got to writing Edward back, it was the next afternoon. The letter would not make it into the mail until the new year, with how the storm was going, but Steve figured he might as well get it finished. His only real challenge was finding a way to write without one of the Barnes sisters trying to steal a peek at the page. Ultimately it was Winifred who came to his rescue, shooing her daughters into helping make dinner rather than bother him. Shaking his head, Steve settled in against the arm of the loveseat to write.

> **December 25, 1940**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> Franklin has declared his undying love for you because of your gift. He is very appreciative. I am too. Those gloves should last us a really long time and get us through many winters. You might like to know that I ended up with the largest pair. There is another detail for your drawings. And I have freckles.
> 
> The image of you in coveralls and a grease-stained shirt is a nice one, I have to admit. You would certainly fit in better that way. I spend a lot of my time in button downs and slacks; denim is more than I can usually afford. Franklin says I dress like an old man, which honestly probably is not too far from the truth. 
> 
> And yes, I would enjoy more pictures. They are good practice for my drawing. Speaking of which, as a Christmas gift from me, I have included a painting. Yes, an actual painting. Last night was the first evening of Hanukkah, and I was invited to celebrate with Franklin’s family. The painting is the view of them lighting the menorah. Franklin is on the right side of the page, then there are his three sisters, his mother, and his father. I thought you might like seeing the celebration through my eyes. Even if it is not my culture, I still appreciate how they focus on light and family. Standing there with them, in the warmth of the candlelight, is the closest I feel to home.
> 
> As for the hospital - hah. Hospitals are for the rich. But I will do my best to stay healthy.
> 
> Did you do anything to celebrate the season?
> 
> -Grant

Carefully rolled up and tied to the envelope was a piece of thick paper. On it, Steve had rendered a beautiful watercolor of the Barnes family lit by the helper candle and the first taper. Their matching grey eyes stood stark against the darkness even as the golden tones evened out the shapes of their faces. Dinah, with her caramel colored hair, stood out particularly bright against the shadows of the room. Chava was a small shadow next to Becca, whose fine features had been carefully detailed. And then there was Bucky, a soft smile turning his lips as he gazed at his family. Everything in the painting focused towards the menorah, as though it were the center of their world. 


	10. It's A Great Day For The Irish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a new year, and with it comes some new inside jokes... and some surprising new friends. 
> 
> Tony 2007 | Steve 1941

Waking up in the Garage on New Year's was different. Tony hadn’t attended any parties. He’d made all the Christmas ones that were before Christmas and just stayed in once those were over. That morning, he rolled off the couch and ran a hand through the nest of curls atop his head. After a cup of coffee, he began working on his to-do list that Pep had been hounding him to complete. By lunchtime, he had emailed over the designs he’d wanted done and the cellphone upgrades he was putting in place to Research and Development. He then dragged himself over to the mailbox. The blizzard was done according to Friday, and the newest letter sat in the spot Dum-E had been programmed to place it on. Tony gave the bot a fond pat and took the letter, and its accompanying painting, as he sat on the unofficial letter writing chair. 

He unfurled the paper and stared at the painting in awe. It was beautiful. Personal, soft, and so lovingly rendered. There was something familiar about the son at the edge of his brain. They were a lovely family. Franklin’s family Tony presumed. And that menorah was stunning. Tony bit his lip a moment. This one needed a frame, because it was a painting and just lovely. Tony called Pepper as he measured the size “Pepp, happy new year, and how mad would you be if I took down the copy of the OSHA certificate I have at my place and hung up a gift I just got?” 

“Not mad since it’s not the real one that is at the Stark Tower building and it was your idea to put it up anyway?” Pepper mused, possibly stirring her tea; he could hear the spoon hitting the cup. 

“I forget sometimes that you only help curate the art portion of things on my walls,” Tony quipped as he brought the certificate down from near the door. He worked quickly to get the certificate free.

“I can tell. Happy new year to you too. I’m glad to see you survived the week,” Pepper said softly. 

“Yeah, I should not try to sleep without liquor that week. It’s just not good. Terrible,” Tony said in a rush as he looked at the back of the picture. “December 24, 1940. Oh honey, you’ve got so much ahead of you.” Tony read aloud a moment before shaking his head.

“Yes, you said that out loud. Interesting gift?” Pepper mused; he could hear the little smile in her voice. Tony heard the faint sound of her working at her drink. “Especially from that date.” 

“You would not believe it Pepper. But yes. The artist is something else, you know,” Tony murmured with a small smile of his own. 

“I’ll have to see it. Was that all Mr. Stark?” Pepper asked with a little lift of her voice.

“That is all Ms. Potts. Have a good day Pep,” Tony answered.

“You too, Tony,” Pepper demurred before hanging up. Tony set the painting beside the mailbox and then finally saw fit to read Grant’s letter. Tony burst out with a laugh within moments and uncapped one of his ballpoint pens. 

> **Jan 1**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> Well that’s handy to know. I’m glad he likes the mitts. And I did remember that, or I thought I did, about the proportions of your hands. Something about the hands of someone much taller? I am glad I remembered that. And I appreciate knowing that now, thank you. 
> 
> There you go, I’d fit in your place. And it sounds like something you’d want to change as far as your dressing goes - can’t have you looking too much like a grandpa. I am much more comfortable in the coveralls. But I don’t think I photograph that well in them. At least not professionally photograph; coveralls don’t work well in those kinds of pictures. 
> 
> And your painting is stunning. Franklin’s family is gorgeous. And I’ve got the painting in a frame now. You can’t stop me. 
> 
> I did most of my celebrating before the week of Christmas because I can’t sleep that week. I usually drink a lot to try to sleep, but I was trying to avoid that this year. Safety. So what I did was attend some parties and make sure all of my group got their gifts early. I sometimes decorate for the holidays, but only if I’m hosting. So this year was pretty quiet, honestly. 
> 
> Your holidays sounded great. Jarvis makes some of the best baked goods I’ve ever had. I think you’d enjoy it. If I could, I’d send you a bunch of it; give you enough to share with Franklin’s family. And this year I dodged all of the mistletoe, thankfully. I think I climbed a window one time to do it. But I did it. Don’t like the tradition that much. 
> 
> What are your resolutions? I’m voting to not die for myself. Trying to keep Obie from being suspicious but keep him away from my stuff has been proving hard so far. Also making sure things keep making money has also been trying. 
> 
> What if we were to see a movie at the end of this month? There’s a Hitchcock movie that is a little different coming out with Carole Lombard. And she is looking forward to it. It sounds like fun. A lot of fun. I think it’s called Mr. and Mrs. Smith. What do you say?
> 
> Edward

Tony sent the letter with a couple pictures Pepper had snapped of him and Rhodey working on the Ford in November. December was not a good month for projects, so he’d have to call Rhodey in soon to get that going again. Tony then walked back into the dark room and reluctantly started on the pictures that he must have taken in December. As he worked on them, a slightly embarrassing fact became clear: drunk him was a damn hussy for the camera. Especially if it was for pictures for Grant. Also his ass had gone from nice to _damn._ And he would have to thank Maria for that. In the meantime he was going to have to hide the scandalous photos; they were most definitely not pictures to send a friend. Not even drunk him was allowed to find these. 

That did however explain what happened to those really ratty jeans. 

\---

> **January 8, 1941**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> Alas! My dread plan to stop you from enjoying the painting has failed. However shall I face the rest of the League of Wicked Men when they learn of my most egregious defeat? My name shall be blacked out from their books, and I shall be forced to wander in the wilderness of the Borough alone. All because of your victory. Woe is me.
> 
> At least I am reassured by the fact you like it. Franklin and his family mean the world to me. Part of me hopes one day you could meet them, though I think you and Franklin spending time together might give me gray hairs. You are both absolute menaces.
> 
> As for your mistletoe exploits, I am curious why you bothered. You seem like the type who would enjoy spending time getting kissed. Was the company at those parties so bad that climbing out the window really was the best option? Not even Pendragon’s friends are that bad, and most of them are art school washouts.
> 
> Typically, my resolution is to survive a little longer. Mostly because Franklin tells me that is my job. We have had too many close calls for his comfort, I guess. Not all of which were the fault of illness and my remarkable ability to find a fight. But this year… maybe I will try for something beyond survival. Maybe this year I will try to get more jobs doing art. It is what I truly love, and I think I am pretty decent at it. I am sure there is some way to make it work.
> 
> I have always wanted to have my work featured in a gallery one day. That would be really fine, yeah? Just imagining people coming to see my art. Talking to me about my color choices. Examining the way I use strokes to create feelings. Making a difference in some small way through the mediums I love. It is probably a fever dream, but sometimes dreams are all I have.
> 
> Also, if Jarvis is as good as you claim, someday we need to trade. I will send you something Franklin’s sister made if you send something from Jarvis.
> 
> The movie sounds like fun. She is a great actress, and Franklin probably will not object going to see that one. He likes a good comedy. But… am I reading that wrong? Do you… actually know her? Have you ever met Cary Grant? These are real important questions, Edward. I have to know.
> 
> -Grant

-

Tony had heard a story from his aunt Peggy about how Howard had once met Carole Lombard. How it was during a New York premiere, and they went for drinks after. Peggy had said something about, “He’d found her quite lovely. This was prior to meeting your Grandmother, you know, and he’d meant to take Carole for a proper date. But that never quite happened. They had chatted and planned, but it never happened. It always bothered him.” Later Howard learned Carole had died in a plane crash. The Starks had awful luck when it came to love and vehicles. 

Tony’s thoughts, which had drawn his attention away from the latest missile he had been designing, were interrupted as he heard the flag lift on the mailbox. Perhaps it was a good time for a break. The brunet sat down the stylus and swiped the keyboard away. Turning on his stool, he then watched Dum-e do his job by pulling the letter from the mailbox and carrying it over to the basket the engineer had placed at the edge of one of the worktables. Standing, he crossed over to stand beside Dum-e and patted the robot’s arm before he grabbed the envelope. 

The missile could wait for him. 

> **Jan 15**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> Indeed it has, foul knight! Now from the jaws of thine defeat, I wish for you to draw out something most unique. Hope. For your craft has brought joy to many of the friends that passed through my halls. My own adoptive father has remarked upon the skill and loving attention of both the family and the menorah. The composition of thy craftsmanship has led to him standing before it and looking upon it for many a minute at a time. May your exile lead you to somewhere new where you can hone thy craft. The wilderness is an inspiration for many a wanderer and painter. I hope you come out of your woes victorious, former black knight.
> 
> I think it would be a blast to hang out with Franklin and you. Franklin and I could talk about the sciences and science fantasy until we actually make it to the moon. All else fails I design more impossible things and draw more Robot Women. Just who would we be menacing Grant? 
> 
> I bothered to avoid the mistletoe because the context of the events means it was a lot of people I have dealt with prior. Also because that kind of proximity with the sort of possible revelations of last year has made me leery of putting myself bodily near that many people. I’ve become leery of people directly handing me things - even packages and letters - because my brain quickly conjures up the gruesome image of something exploding or being poisoned or tampered with. But Pendragon’s friends I imagine wouldn’t know much about those sort of things, so I might not flee out the window with them. 
> 
> Grant, I want you to flourish. And I am sure you will find a way to do it. I’ve made something of a small gallery of your work in my garage. I’m thinking of moving my preferred writing seat closer to where I have it set up. But I would need to do some heavy rearranging. And I could probably write down what my friend Pepper says about your pieces. She likes them for starters. 
> 
> And yes we do need to trade. I’m not sure about the logistics of that yet because there is nothing like fresh off the pan anything. 
> 
> Carole and I run in similar circles. Private parties all that jazz. I’ve been meaning to meet Cary; just haven’t managed it yet. Do I sense a favourite Grant? 
> 
> -Edward

After the standard rewrite and wait Tony included with the letter was a small picture of the wall where he had been placing all of the gifted art. A sliver of the mailbox hanging on the wall near the painting could be seen. He figured it wasn’t a big deal, because it could barely be seen. 

Tony sent the letter off before grabbing leftovers from the fridge. The missile seemed enough that it could placate Obie in the future. Hopefully. Pricey, showy, reliable, and destructive. Stark Industries. Tony grabbed a smoothie as well as he went back down to work. Another day, another weapon. Wouldn’t his forefathers be proud?

-

Steve chuckled at the way Edward jumped to match his level of weirdness. It boded well for their ability to be friends. After all, what was life without the chance to laugh together? Acting on a whim, the blond grabbed a sheet of paper and did a stylized drawing of himself as a knight, drawn to scale. His armor was dulled and the finery on his horse tattered with wear. The tiny knight leaned into the bulk of the animal as though its black body was the only comfort he had in the world. Around them Steve filled in the background with what looked like a particularly awful swamp. He was, however, also very careful to leave the knight’s helm firmly on so his features could not be seen.

Setting the drawing aside, Steve smiled to himself. He would have to work on the letter when he got home. For the time being, he had promised Arnie they could go out, and they were headed someplace a bit different than normal. The redhead had met some new friends, better ones he claimed, that had invited him to what they were calling February House – something of an artists commune. There were writers, performers, and artists living there; it seemed like a good place for Steve to work on his resolution for the new year.

So, Steve dolled up as best he could. He carefully parted his hair and dressed in a thick sweater instead of his usual button-down shirt. Then came the brightly colored scarf, his thickest jacket, and the fine pair of mittens. By the time he stepped out onto the landing, Bucky was already waiting for him. “I hope this is better than the last time we went out with Arnie,” he drawled.

“You and me both,” Steve said with a laugh. “Not sure how many more disasters I can take before I just give up on social interaction.”

“As long as that don’t include me, you can give up on social interaction all you want.” Throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders, Bucky grinned impishly as the pair started up the street to where they were supposed to meet Arnie.

When they arrived at 7 Middagh Street, the trio stopped short. The building was an odd thing among its much blander brick brethren. While the others were brownstone, February flaunted its difference with white stone mixed in with the brick; fanciful wooden trimmings that looked as though they had escaped from the British countryside; and, a peaked roof that caused the building to stand tall among its fellows. Steve was absolutely charmed by it. Seeing his smile, Arnie laughed, “They only got it habitable a couple months ago. Renovated the place themselves.”

“Who are they?” Bucky eyed the building with suspicion, especially as he could hear music playing from where they stood on the street.

“Some writers and performers. Artists. Fun people.” Arnie smiled. “I think you might even recognize some of them, Buck. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Feeling ever so put upon, Bucky waved a mittened hand at the house. “Alright, Arnie. Let’s get this over with.”

Inside of the house was every inch as eclectic as the outside hinted at. They stepped into an entryway, where a rather intense-looking man with piercing dark eyes took their coats. “Arnie, glad you could make it! And who are these fine chaps?”

“Wystan! So good to see you, handsome.” The pair exchanged a quick kiss on the cheek before Arnie gestured to his guests. “This is Steve Rogers, the artist I was telling you about. And this is his platonic soulmate, Bucky Barnes.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you both. Arnie has told me a great deal about your talents, Steve. I hope we are able to speak further, and perhaps sometime you would be willing to bring a sampling of your work for us to view?”

Utterly flummoxed, Steve could barely manage a nod. Why hadn’t Arnie warned him that W. H. Auden was going to be there? And then things truly became surreal. As they moved into the parlor, which was dominated by a large marble fireplace, Steve and Bucky came face to face with even more famous faces. Draped out on one sofa, a glass of sherry in hand, was a brunette bombshell with eyes that seemed to simultaneously know all of your secrets and find them laughable. Gypsy Lee Rose. Curled up beside Lee was a little wisp of a woman with a prominent nose and a long, round face. 

“I’ve read your book,” Steve blurted without thinking. “ _The Heart is a Lonely Hunter._ ”

The boyish woman gave him a devilish smirk. “I should hope so. Question your taste if you hadn’t, hun.”

Arnie laughed a little and pat Steve firmly on the back. “Lee, Carson. This is Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Steve is part of the invalid contingent. You two would get along, Carson.” 

Something sharp flashed across the woman’s face, but she hid it behind a wan expression. “Explains why he’s such a little thing, don’t it?”

“Now Carson, play nice,” came a warm tenor voice from the other sofa. There, Steve discovered, sat Peter Pears and Benjamin Britten, the famous British duo. Peter was an extremely talented tenor, sometimes called the voice of the generation, while Benjamin was one of the great living composers. Even Bucky felt his knees go weak at the sight of them. “Don’t scare the kids away yet. They are quite easy on the eyes.” Peter laughed as Benjamin lightly pinched his side. “What! They are. Both of them.”

“I thought you had eyes only for me, sweetheart,” Ben drawled.

“Don’t worry, dearest. You are my heart and soul.” The pair shared a soft kiss. And no one in the room, aside from Steve and Bucky, seemed to so much as bat an eyelash at the display. “We can admire their fine figures together.”

“I accept that proposal.” They shared another quick kiss before Benjamin turned his gaze back towards them. “I’m Ben and this is my companion Peter. Why don’t you two sit down? Make yourselves at home.”

And thus began the strangest night of Steve’s life. He talked art with Auden, listened to Carson talk about her struggles as a sickly author, and even offered to bring sketches past so George Oliver, editor of _Harper’s Bazaar_ , could see them. George had shared a secretive smile with Steve and simply said, “Might as well see that our artwork comes from someone in the family. Got to look out for each other.” Bucky meanwhile was practically sat at Lee’s feet, listening with rapt attention as she talked about her performances. It was funny to see a woman utterly immune to Bucky’s charms. If the smile on Lee’s face was anything to go by, it seemed much more like Bucky was the one being toyed with than the other way around. 

By the time they got home, Steve bid his best friend a wordless farewell before heading into his apartment. His body was buzzing with excitement, and the thought of going to sleep was miles away. So, he settled down at his desk and lit the lamp. 

> **January 25, 1941**
> 
> Edward, 
> 
> You will literally never believe who I met. Pendragon invited me to meet some of his new friends, and he gave me no warning at all. So, I walk into this place and someone takes my coat. I turn around, and it is W. H. Auden. The W. H. Auden. And I thought to myself, “Oh, wow, this could not get more surreal.” I was wrong. Peter Pears, Benjamin Britten, Carson McCullers, and George Oliver were all there too. Franklin nearly pissed himself when he saw Gypsy Lee Rose was there too. He swooned after her like a moonstruck calf. 
> 
> George asked me to bring some of my art past his office. I might get to do some work for Harper’s Bazaar! Can you believe that? My art, in full color, in something like that. He said if my stuff is good enough, he might be able to get me in with some other places. I almost could have kissed Pendragon for introducing me to these people. 
> 
> And Eddie… The way they were all so comfortable and intimate. I have never seen anything like it in my life. It was a place where I could imagine myself cuddling up to my fella while we talked about politics and life and art, sneaking kisses whenever we felt like it. And nobody would care. The conversation would just continue, as normal as anything. Never thought it could be like that. And I have never wanted something so much in my entire life. It was … beautiful.
> 
> I am real sorry that you are so worried about your safety, though. I cannot imagine living every day wondering if one of the people around me was going to try to poison me or something. Honestly, I would probably do more than jump out the window; I would move to the other side of the country. At least then I might have an excuse to avoid their parties. But you are a brave man for sticking it out. I do not know what keeps you there, but I do hope you stay safe. The world would be a sadder place without you in it.
> 
> Your gallery wall is lovely. Makes me feel all fizzy looking at it. And the frame you picked for the painting looks great. I feel flattered that you would care enough about my art to hang it up like that.
> 
> This week I am going to see the movie, as promised. You will have to let me know what you make of it. I am sure excited. Even Franklin is excited, though he was a bit dubious of letting me pick what we were seeing. I had to reassure him that it was your choice and not mine. He said he could trust you better, since the both of you have similar tastes. I was right; you would be menaces together. Specifically, you would team up against me and make me regret introducing you. I would probably laugh so much I would need another asthma treatment. It would be amazing.
> 
> And yes, I do have a favorite Grant. Have you seen Cary? He has the dreamiest eyes and a perfectly delicious voice. Nothing makes me swoon like that man can. If I ever met him, I would be an absolute catastrophe. I would make an absolute fool of myself just trying to tell him how much I admired his work. I cannot even think about meeting him without blush; it is ridiculous.
> 
> -Grant

\---

What was supposed to be a nice relaxing evening of writing Grant turned into a rabbit hole of learning about the February House. Tony read about the absolutely stunning Gypsy Lee Rose and figured out with Friday where he would know the names. Tony had a moment while reading “Funeral Blues” where he choked back some emotions. He’d heard it before, but it was still a heavy thing. After he gathered himself back up, Tony leaned back against his seat in thought. He would wait. Find out if Grant got the job with _Harper’s Bazaar._

Tony couldn’t stop the smile at the drawing of the little knight. The very lovely horse and the swamp he swore he could feel the humidity of from his chair. And of course Grant was hiding his face behind the visor. 

> **Jan 30**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> Did you at least give Pendragon a hug? Sounds like he deserves that. And Grant that sounds perfect. I wish there were more spaces like that for you. Would you believe I already am across the country from Obie? Work has us travel enough it’s a little hard to avoid him sometimes. 
> 
> I can only imagine Franklin tripping over himself. Gypsy Lee Rose truly is something else. And every minute I imagine the place, it sounds more and more dreamlike. They wouldn’t bat an eyelash at all at any little affections. Imagine dancing somewhere like that. With whatever music suited the whims of whoever was around. That would be great.
> 
> I know you have the talent and skill to get a job like that. I am excited for you. 
> 
> My safety has been a mixed bag for a lot of my life. But yes I agree: it is awful. The place is successful so he could afford any number of things I’m keeping busy to try to maintain my head. And well the next easiest option would be Manhattan for my work, I figure. But that is where he stays. I stay here because it’s the farthest I can be from Manhattan while staying in the States. Nothing good happens in Manhattan. 
> 
> I am honored you have drawn so many things for me for free. And they make my garage feel even more like a small home in my home. I love them. The grumpy Grant Knight, Sir Van Gogh is going to have a lovely home. I hope he finds perhaps a friend or some food soon. Is he any closer to what you look like? 
> 
> I’m looking forward to it too, Grant. With everything happening I am worried. I think I’d make myself of more worth off the field than in the war proper. But I worry about your friends. Pendragon and Franklin seem strong and able bodied. Am I wrong in thinking you worry too? A movie is a great distraction for that. And I do think Franklin and I would end up making you laugh like that. Has the medicine been helping you? 
> 
> Favorites. Grant you are asking the hard questions. Cary Grant is amazing. Is he part of the reason you went with Grant for these exchanges? Because I don’t blame you one bit. I’m a little partial sometimes to Buster Crabbe. But that’s simply because I sometimes wish he could pick me up. And lift me. I’d like to lift people, but only with permission since I know they’d sock me real good if I didn’t have permission to. Probably kick my teeth too. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. That sounds like a dream. 
> 
> Edward

Tony paused in his writing a few times as he looked at his couch. Yeah, affection between two men wouldn’t be out of place in the February House. None of them would look twice as he’d pull Grant close and wrap him in a blanket. There might be a laugh as Grant would probably grumble and shift them around so he was the big spoon. A little man with the fire and spirit of a man of at least six feet was how Grant had been described by friends. But Tony tried to shake himself from the daydreams of holding that gorgeous spitfire close. What was it with Tony and impossibilities? 

“Friday do I look like Cary Grant?” Tony asked with a small laugh - just out of sheer silliness.

“The comparison has been made a few times in several articles, boss,” Friday answered as Tony blinked rapidly for a moment. Well shit. 

Tony made a drawing of the knight with a long flop of hair as he adjusted the jawline to be a bit stronger. Made him eat an apple as he glared off into the distance, some light freckles on his cheeks since he had probably been out in the sun. A smudge of dirt on one cheek. There was something sharp about his expression that suggested Sir Van Gogh was possibly plotting some sort of revenge against….. Maybe Lord Stark. No, his grandpa did exist at that point in time. Lord… Kitt? He figured as he heard one of Eartha Kitt’s songs play over his speakers. Edward Kitt. 

“A curse upon your house Lord Kitt!” Tony wrote on the back, including a little doodle of himself with a fancy cape and crown sticking his tongue out at the reader. He tucked everything in and sent the letter with a smile. Tony patted the mailbox before it did its thing, and he looked back at his normal workspace.

Now to finish some more work on the as of yet unnamed missile. He could input the name into the coding later. But what to name it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The February House was a real place, and it felt fitting to include it in this story. After all, Steve being an artist is an important part of who he is; having a community is an important part of that. I (Nev) did my best to research February House and its occupants, but do note that these are fictitious representations of real people. Some liberties have been taken, in terms of personalities and the actions they take in this story. I do highly suggest reading up on the real people, though, as they are all so unique and interesting!
> 
> As always, we do our best to research and keep this fic as correct as we can. But sometimes mistakes happen... and sometimes our beta process isn't the best. So if you find any errors, feel free to let us know! Or you can just scream in the comments to tell us about your feelings... we enjoy that a lot.


	11. Any Other World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. And Mrs. Smith opens up a conversation. And Tony furthers the adventures of Sir Grant. 
> 
> Also, a project finally has a name.

Edward’s drawing drew a number of laughs from both Steve and Bucky. Even Arnie loved it, once the blond explained what had been happening between them. As the three men crammed onto Steve’s bed, the sculptor squinted a little. “It actually looks a bit like you,” he pointed out. “Face is too wide, and the eyes are all wrong. Shape I mean. But he’s getting closer.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, a thread of pride in his voice. “Funny thing? The schmuck claims he can’t draw. Says he doesn’t do art. And I’m like, buddy come on. I might be colorblind, but I ain’t that much of a mess.”

The trio snorted a little, though the movement caused Steve’s elbow to jam into Bucky’s side. “Ouch! You punk! Watch those elbows. They’re practically deadly weapons,” the brunet griped.

Steve shot him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Buck.” He wormed around until they were in a better position. “Y’know, maybe you should draw me sometime Arnie. We can send it to him.”

Arching an eyebrow, Arnie considered that. “But I am not particularly good at faces. Sculpting them, sure. Drawing them? Hah.”

“Not my face,” Steve said slowly. “More like one of those studies you used to do. So he gets a better sense of my proportions.”

While the blond was busy looking down at the letter, Arnie and Bucky shared a thoughtful glance. They both knew the smaller man was doing his best to not let his feelings slip back into the letters, but it was in moments like that where his wants rang a little too honest. Because the types of studies Arnie had done had involved a dramatic use of light and very little clothing. “Alright. If you want,” the sculptor finally said. “Once it gets warmer, we can do that.”

Steve hummed under his breath, not quite hearing what Arnie had said. 

“If we’re going to that picture you wanna see,” Bucky said finally, “We should probably get going.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Steve carefully rolled out of the bed and sat the letter on the bedside table. “At least this time it’s a comedy?” He grinned at them both, his eyes twinkling.

“I don’t know that I trust a comedy by Hitchcock,” Bucky grumbled. “Especially not after that stunt you pulled with  _ Angel Street. _ I still ain’t recovered from that mess.” Steve just laughed, throwing his head back as his body shook.

_ Mr. and Mrs. Smith  _ was an experience. It was funny, sure, but Steve spent half the film wanting to punch both of the titular characters. When they found out that their wedding was null and void because of a random technicality, the pair turned into absolute trainwrecks. Ann started running around with David’s best friend - all after kicking David out of the house. David kept trying to make Ann jealous and pulling stunts to make himself look pitiful. And all because David did not immediately jump to telling Ann that they needed to get remarried.

Bucky thought the entire thing was hilarious. He howled with laughter practically the entire time, revelling in the antics of the un-married pair. And when they ended up back together at the end of the movie, the brunet sighed happily. Steve, meanwhile, had to bite his knuckles to keep from yelling at the screen. Arnie just shook his head and said, “Women.”

When Steve got back to the apartment, he was still ranting about how unhealthy the relationship the movie had depicted was. And how the terrible couple deserved each other for just how awful they were. Bucky just laughed. “Stevie, it’s a movie. Not everybody can be a Pollyanna.”

Steve gave Bucky a flat look. “Seriously? Pollyanna?”

“Hey, it’s a great book. My kid sisters loved it.” Shrugging, Bucky leaned against the doorway. “But hey, tell Edward that next time I get to pick if I’m getting drug along. Alright?”

“Sure, sure.” He rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Buck.”

“Well, if we’re going by them rules, I have a few suggestions…” A wicked sort of gleam lit up the man’s steely eyes.

“Goodbye, Buck. I’ll see you later.”

Laughing, the brunet pushed himself upright. “Sure, kid. I’ll see you this evening. Ma is expecting you for dinner.” He gave his eyebrows a salacious wiggle. “And I’ll save ya some room in the bed.” With that, he sauntered out of the apartment.

Steve shook his head. “What a mook.” He knew he could not spend too long writing the letter - his apartment still wasn’t being heated - but he preferred to hide in the quiet of his room while doing so. After all, Dinah and Chava were incredibly nosy kids who loved to try and see what Steve was writing. It was just better to avoid that altogether. 

> **February 5, 1941**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> That movie sure was a ride. Franklin laughed practically the whole time, and even I got a few chuckles in. Honestly, though, I kind of wanted to deck them both. Ann and David were just … I do not even have words for what they were. At least, none my ma would be proud of me using. Franklin also insists that he gets to pick the next movie, if he ends up being our third wheel again. Pendragon would then get the next pick, if we humor them. I might just not tell Frank about the next movie; leave him to just be swarmed by his sisters for an evening instead. Or I could be real rebellious and go to a daytime movie. Sneak out while he is off working.
> 
> But it was fun. Imagining getting to watch that movie with you. I have the feeling you probably got fired up at them too. Did you feel the urge to throw popcorn at the screen? If I had any, I sure would have been tempted. 
> 
> And if you ever need me to punch this Obie fella, I would be more than happy to. Manhattan is not that far from me, and I have a pretty decent right hook. Depending on how big the guy is. My technique is great, but I do not exactly have much weight to put behind it.
> 
> Also, Pendragon wanted me to point out that your drawing is cute. But the shape of my eyes is apparently ‘all wrong.’ You made them big and doey, more like yours. I have much smaller eyes. 
> 
> Sometime, maybe, I might have Pendragon sketch me. It will have to wait until the temperatures get higher, though. Right now I am hiding out with Franklin’s family, because it is too expensive to heat both apartments. Better to just heat the bigger one and pool our resources. Of course, that means sharing a bed with Franklin… you would not believe how he snores. I swear he could shake down the walls of Jericho with his snores. Sometimes it feels like my brain is going to rattle clean out of my body just sharing a mattress with him.
> 
> But yeah, seems like it is safer for you to stay in California for now. I wish you did not have to. I wish you could come here, so I could hear what your laughter sounds like in person. Because letters, no matter how good they are, can never seem to carry sound. Franklin says when I laugh, I do it with my whole body. I throw my head back and close my eyes and just rattle with it. Like it is practically exploding out of me or something.
> 
> Anyway, I should get back to Franklin’s place. Dinner is soon, and his ma hates to start late. I may not be her son, but she will not hesitate to give me the evil eye if I cause a delay. 
> 
> -Grant

\---

“Friday where were the spies? I thought that the movie was a remake and this was the original. I just watched two assholes torment each other. If it was a remake I would have been able to laugh about spy antics and wild gadgets and shenanigans. Instead, I just watched two assholes, who if they talked clearly about the guys’ mistress fantasy, could have gotten a laugh and remarried. They drag a decent guy into it and his family and are just disasters.” Tony ranted as he noted all that down 

Now, how the hell was he going to start this letter without revealing there is an entirely different movie called  _ Mr. and Mrs. Smith _ ? 

> **Feb 9**
> 
> Grant, 
> 
> I’ll admit I was expecting something a bit different. I was not expecting two assholes who kind of deserve each other by the end. I was not expecting disaster one, who could have avoided the issue by being honest about his mistress fantasy with his own wife. They could have had wild raunchy sex, got married the next day, and be done with it. To just potentially sabotage his finances and career because his wife was more put together than him at that point is just so stupid? 
> 
> And yes! I had the feeling we were going to be team-knock-their-heads-together. And Ann’s insistence on going through with the cabin adventure. And David’s stupid act - ugh. I just stare and think: those are adults? We are supposed to believe they are adults. And dragging the poor guy into it, and his family! 
> 
> Also I would have thrown popcorn at the screen if I had any to throw. I just smuggled in my own chips. Also those skis were very suggestive, and if you could grab me a rope to pull myself out of the gutter that would be great. And no kind of sex sounds like that. Unless someone is exceptionally wild and has broken a lamp on her husband's face.
> 
> It is entirely up to you what the next movie is. And however you want to do it, Grant. I like the rebellious option personally. 
> 
> I would love to see you punch Obie. That would be a great image but, uh, he is not frail or small by any stretch of the imagination. So grab a good prop. 
> 
> I am adoring your dedication to this fixing one feature at a time . . . I want to draw you decking them with the skis at the end. After their moment. And they are dressed again. That or I might doodle something with Sir Van Gogh. I guess you’ll see. But smaller eyes. You will tell me when I get it right? 
> 
> Also a sketch from Pendragon! But since you aren’t showing me your face, I’m curious what he’s gonna draw, and I’m having to distract myself a great deal to keep from thinking about it.
> 
> Jericho. May I use that for the name of something I’m imagining? The concept is using a sonic wave to further shake foundations after the initial explosion. I just can’t believe I didn’t think of that one myself or sooner. Jericho. Also I think you would understand how comfy some people are to nap on then. And not be alarmed by it. 
> 
> I want to send you every funny thing I can think of now to make you laugh. Because that sounds great. I don’t talk to Rhodey or Pepp about things like that, so I’m not sure how I laugh. Though I think Rhodey one time compared me to a kid in a way? Like the fact I would just start and not stop and grab at a shoulder or arm. And kind of curl up. But that was during our schooling, so I don’t know if that still holds true. He’s been busting his butt lately.
> 
> Stay warm. 
> 
> Edward

Tony finally opted to fold the page in half and do a couple of doodles, continuing the ‘Is this you?’ series. Both featured Grant with the smaller eyes and trying yet another haircut. On the page, the blond was bopping both Ann and David, who were both sloppily dressed, with a ski each. In a little speech bubble, the little Grant was shouting, “Be. Good. To. Each. Other!” Knocking them with a ski with each word.

The lower half was a sketch of Franklin, dressed in medieval garb, hiding from a swarm of angry women. Reaching up, Franklin was tugging Grant down to keep them hidden. He wrote a little bit on the back: “So, since you’re being driven out of the town, would you care to join me on a quest?” Sir Grant asked, looking at the harassed looking man. 

“What kind of quest?”

  
“Revenge.” 

“Sure.”

Tony tucked them in the envelope and looked over at his display. 

“Friday, rename current project, Project Jericho,” Tony grinned before sending the letter and drawing off to Grant. 

\--

> **February 15, 1941**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> They were absolute disasters. Also what kind of husband just assumes his wife would be perfectly fine not knowing they were not married? You are completely right that he could have just told her about his fantasy. Honestly, who cares what sort of things you like to do in bed, so long as it has been clearly communicated to your partner and agreed on by you both? I can sort of see the appeal of wanting to play out a fantasy – I have no shortage of those – but the logic of doing it without asking his wife… I just have no words. None at all. And honestly, if he had just communicated to her, they probably could have raunchy relations regularly. Because, honestly, a good fantasy can probably be revisited more than once. Not that I have any personal experience, but I feel like it is a safe bet.
> 
> And Jeff! I felt so bad for him. He seemed like a nice enough fella, even if he was a bit too Confederate seeming for my taste. I mean, come on. A guy from Alabama whose name is Jefferson Custard? What was his middle name: Stonewall? He was at least a gentleman and real polite. I would have happily gone steady with a man like that, supposing he could survive the fact I am a card carrying socialist. Which, now that I think about it, he probably would not like. Such a shame.
> 
> I will be sure to take a look to see what all is supposed to be playing soon. If anything strikes my fancy, I will let you know. And part of me likes the idea of being rebellious, too. Then again, I have the feeling if my body were just a little less broken I would manage to get into all kinds of trouble. The good kind of trouble, though. The kind that makes the world a better place, you know? And while I was at it, I would be able to give Obie the walloping he deserves. For now, though, I guess I will just have to plan to use a lamp or something. Maybe a two-by-four. Depends on just how big this fella is and how far I would have to stretch to reach his face. The curses of being as short as I am.
> 
> I will say, you got the scale of the eyes right. But, mine slant upwards at the inner corner. So, you are getting a little closer.
> 
> And honestly, you would not believe how many times I have had to rescue Franklin from his girlfriends. A girl saw him stepping out with this other dame, and boy did she ream him. And when the other girl realized what was happening, she started letting into him too. He deserved it, sure, but I felt bad for him. Caused a distraction so he could escape from them both. Once I even caught him with one of his dames in my bed, and I gave him such a talking to you would not believe it. We now have very clear rules on what he is and is not allowed to do in my apartment. Told him if he ever pulled that again I would cut off his balls and feed them to him. Franklin has been smart enough to believe me on that one.
> 
> And Pendragon is actually a sculptor by trade. We met in a human anatomy class, though. Bonded over the fact that both of us felt a bit out of place. I helped him work on his figure drawing, and he taught me the basics of his craft. He tends to draw bodies, though, instead of faces; he is awful at getting features right on the page. So, you would still not see my face, but you would get a real sense for how I am built. Though, I warn you, my body is not pretty. My spine is bent and twisted like I am Richard III. There is also not a soft spot on me – I am too skinny and bony. I do not think there is a single beautiful thing about the way my body looks; I wish there was some way to fix it.
> 
> But I will stop before I go too far off topic. My dissatisfaction with my body is not something you want to hear about, I am sure. Instead, I will give you my blessing to name your device after Franklin’s snores. By the description, it sounds like they are equally destructive. Hopefully it is something that can help us win the war with as little loss of life as possible. Because, you were right in one of your earlier letters. The war looms over us here, and it feels like it is only a matter of time until it breaks on our shores. And when it does, Franklin and Pendragon will go. Every day I try not to imagine a world without them in it, but I know it is only too possible. The Great War showed just how many lives it takes to end a war; how many good people will never get to go home. The odds of both my boys coming home just is not that high. And now I worry about you too. Who would I write if you got drafted? I hate to say it, but you are not allowed to join up until you have successfully sketched me.
> 
> Please feel free to send me anything you think will make me laugh. I need it more than you know. And I bet your laughter is adorable. The kind of thing that makes everyone around you smile with the warmth of it. Promise me that someday I can hear it?
> 
> -Grant

\--

Tony had noticed the frequency of the letters slow. He wouldn't say it was fine per se, but he made that bed and he had to use it to sleep sometime. But the movie was absurd enough it opened an avenue of talk it seemed. 

Grant's view on sex meshed so well with his it was a damn shame they wouldn't have it. No matter what his body tried to tell him. Wouldn't because they were friends; couldn't because this man was in the forties. 

Now, concern over Grant's health was a given, the asthma alone in his era was rough enough. That he was poor and likely eating as well as Franklin's family could afford compounded it when he did eat. And that he had, from the sounds of it, lost weight during his bout with pneumonia - it all made Tony worry something fierce. Grant had to take it easy on himself.

> Grant, 
> 
> It would be a very safe bet they would probably do that again. I was trying to forget he was that southern. But you are probably right. And I would scurry Jeff away as well to be fair, or at least find him someone decent not playing mind games with their partner. 
> 
> And thankfully I haven't had that problem with Rhodey; we shared a place during our schooling. And since I was very young starting in college, he didn't want me anywhere near that kind of thing. We got up to enough shenanigans as it was. 
> 
> I am curious to see your choice of film. And I don't doubt if your constitution matched your will and tenacity, you would cause so much good trouble. Obie getting walloped and out of my life would be great. And Grant, I am beginning to share Pendragon's sentiment about faces. But I am in this now. You are making me practice. 
> 
> So you are saying he would join Sir Van Gogh's quest for revenge. I see how it is. I can barely keep the grin off my face as I write this by the way. 
> 
> Grant. You lost weight while you were sick. Give yourself time and food to recover. Your body gets you from point a to point b mostly. It lets you do your craft, and your body is yours. Figures you would be sharp and pointy. Rhodey says I have sharp elbows too. You would be on top of the dog pile on Rhodey then, in theory.
> 
> Thanks for the permission. It helps having a name for a project like that. I hope your sleep has been decent at least. And the important thing is to cherish your guys when you have them. I would miss them a lot. And that sounds like a fantastic plan: you will keep me from the war by force of will. So, ‘42 by the time I get your eyes right. My gut tells me I am going to have to fiddle with the shape of your face. So ‘44? 
> 
> I want to hear you speak too. Even if it's just you calling Franklin or myself a shmuck. Bet you are going to be secretive about your laugh too. 
> 
> I think your knight is going on an adventure today. I don’t think this is his real story but I feel like imagining some time travel.
> 
> Edward

Tony sketched out a few time machines again as he looked through his current project files. He threw in a small doodle of Sir Van Gogh going through portals formed by a ring. The small knight looking at different historical eras. He drew one where the knight ran away from witch hunts since they were awful, screw that stuff. Not to mention the thing he’s using to do this was a gift and very magical. 

Tony decided to put Captain America in the leather coat and prop helmet with no shield in sight as he pointed to a portal in the distance for a frame. He drew Cap possibly on the way to Azzano according to pictures that were snuck after the rescue. It’s a small drawing so there’s no real detail on the face but Tony thought it was cute. The comic started growing on Tony as he pulled another page. As he moved Grant further ahead in time he grew more confident in the backgrounds as they are shapes he’s familiar with. Until Tony finally drew himself in what he’s wearing at that moment. It was familiar, yet dissonant enough it would do the job. He definitely drew Grant outraged and ranting at him. Grant mistook him for Lord Kitt and blamed him for his plight. Time passed in the comic with them talking. Possibly growing into something like a friendship. Tony drew himself offering to try to find a solution and help the misplaced knight. 

Tony drew himself looking pensively at a scan of this fictional stone before offering a possible solution to tell the knight, who still stubbornly wore his dented armor. “As the futurist looked at the knight he gave a small smile. With the knight's purpose having been lost to time he offered a suggestion: ‘Keep going forward. At your pace or mine just keep going. You will find someone who is yours because that’s all anyone really wants right? Maybe you’ll find your home.’

“As Sir Grant and his horse found the sign on the scorched Earth that read, ‘What was here has moved to the stars. Look for hope and you will find it anywhere.’ Then the knight found he was finally able to turn the stone to the reverse and go home.”

Tony bit his lip before he just finally decided to go all out in self-indulgence. He drew Lord Kitt emerging from some really damn annoying to draw greenery. His wrist was revealed by a clingy branch catching his sleeve, to show a very familiar-looking gem and bracelet. “Oh there you are,” Tony drew out the smile Pepper had snapped of him while he was looking at Grant’s wall one night. It probably looked ridiculous but it was the right smile. 

“Edward?” he sketched Grant warily step forward. 

“Ready for that adventure now?” he sketched the lord asking as he tugged a bag free from the bushes. 

“...yes”

Tony cringed at himself halfway to just pitching the last paper out of some weird uncomfortable feeling clawing at him. But really, that would be the dream to explore and adventure with someone. It would be just plain weird to have all these screens he made for reference around him for nothing. For him not to do something with the art. He finally wrote on the back of it in pencil. “Grant I was supposed to be working on some calculation and this happened. And I am a bit embarrassed. I’m not sure how much of a laugh you’ll get but um. This is yours now.” Finally, he sent it with the letter and took a shower. Tony scrubbed trying to shake this weird fluttery shit his body was convinced it needed to do. And finally flopped onto the couch. He’ll work on some more coding tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any Other World is a B-Side from Mika's album Life In Cartoon Motion. 
> 
> And please share your thoughts, guesses, and cooing and various other noises. It feeds us.


	12. Welcome to the Black Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony bond over having really, really awful dads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, Tony and Steve do talk about their abusive dads, though it's not particularly explicit

It was an absolutely miserable day. Everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong. From not getting picked for a job to having someone knock him into a pile of slush to having the laces of one shoe snap -  _ everything  _ went wrong. By the time Steve got home - wet and miserable - he just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. But, he knew his ma would not be impressed by that choice, if she were still around. So, he carefully changed into fresh, dry clothes and lit one of the burners on his stove to make a cup of tea. 

And that was when he noticed the envelope Bucky must have left on his table.

Wandering over to it, Steve traced a finger over the R that curled its way across the heavy paper. Did he feel up to reading a letter? Going back over to the stove, he carefully put his pot of water to boil and prepped his cup. All the while keeping one eye on the envelope.

Finally, when the tea was steeping, Steve sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the envelope towards him. Maybe Edward would make things better. Pulling out the folded sheets, the blond took a steadying breath. He flipped the pages flat on the table with the blade of his thumb and began to read in the flickering light of his oil lamp. 

A small smile flickered across his lips. Edward had a way of talking - or writing, rather - that made the tension ease from Steve’s body. He would never admit it, but it was just as soothing as sitting beside Bucky while the brunet read a book out loud. It felt a little bit like home. And the comic! Sure, Edward was not a perfect artist - sometimes his proportions were off and his figures felt a bit stiff - but there was a charm to his style. Steve could easily imagine  _ The Adventures of Sir Grant _ appearing in the newspaper cartoon section and how everyone would love finding out what new mischief the little knight got up to each week. 

Mary and all the saints, though, Edward certainly had an imagination! He was clearly a futurist with a wonderful ability to see a multitude of possibilities. A time-travelling stone helping the knight find what he had lost felt … uncanny, though Steve could not put a finger on why. And the Edward of the future, with his quiet advice, made the blond’s heart ache a little. Someone of his own. That felt impossible, if Steve were honest. But maybe, if he were very lucky, his own Lord Kitt would someday be ready for a joint adventure. It was a sweet fantasy if nothing else.

Though, if Steve were frank with himself, he was rather certain the relationship between them would never go that direction again. Sure, Edward was kind to him - flattering even. But a man like that would have a partner equally as posh; someone who understood the struggles Edward’s status lead to. Steve would make a bumbling fool of himself if they found an impossible future where they could be together. It was better, Steve thought, to set aside any thoughts of a relationship beyond friendly letter writing. They would never meet. Never talk face to face. Or hear one another’s voices. And that was that.

Feeling oddly morose, Steve did not return to the Barneses’ apartment. He finished his tea and blew out his lamp. Then, feet dragging, he crawled into bed and hid under as many blankets as he could. And if his dreams were filled with warm brown eyes and soft laughter, he would never admit it. 

When he woke the next morning, the sun was streaming weakly through the window. His eyes were crusted thickly, and tear tracks had dried over on his cheeks. Sometimes he just felt the keen ache of loneliness so intensely that it seemed to gnaw away at the strings of his heart, threatening to break it. 

Shivering, he crawled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. The letter seemed to stare at him from the tabletop. Turning to the stove, he began to heat up the water and a pan to make breakfast. He slumped over to the table with his plate of eggs and cup of tea. As he ate, he stared at the letter once more. And somehow, entirely against his will, a ghost of a smile touched his lips. Pausing in his eating, he grabbed a piece of paper and began to write, continuing to eat with his off hand. 

> **February 25, 1941**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> I love your comics so much. They are a delight. Maybe you should quit being an engineer and draw for the papers instead. Sir Grant would be the champion of children everywhere. But the adventures he goes on with Lord Kitt... I am sure those would be my favorite. Sir Grant gets a bit lonely going through the world by himself. 
> 
> And now that you have my eyes done, you can start on my eyebrows. They are far thicker than what you have drawn. If it would save you from serving in the war, I would get you down to the absolute minute details of my features, like the exact number and placement of my freckles. I want to keep you safe, even though I feel so powerless.
> 
> The other day, Bucky and I listened to the State of the Union when they replayed it on the radio. It made me want to cry. Here is a man claiming that everyone should have the freedom from fear, and yet how many people actually have that? Freedom from fear only exists if you are wealthy, white, Christian, able-bodied, and only seek relationships with the opposite sex. Anyone outside of that has good reason to be afraid, especially now. Do you think we will ever be free of it? These restraints we have put on ourselves - the threat of the Normal?
> 
> I just want to be safe. I want the people I love to be safe.
> 
> Why is that so much to expect from the world?

Rubbing at his eyes, Steve hiccuped back his tears. He hated when he got emotional like this; it was utterly irrational. And yet, he could not stop crying. So, blinking through the tears, he quickly signed off his letter and stuffed it in an envelope. He then gathered the comic pages together and shuffled back to bed, holding them tightly to his chest.

\---

Tony stared at the finished Jericho schematics. All that was left was to fabricate, and it was just about perfect Obie calming material. The math was perfect; the simulations were perfect; and, it would demonstrate so well. All he had to do was keep it handy in case of rising suspicions. Somewhere in the fugue-like state he had been in, Tony heard Dum-E be the best little bot and put a letter in its home. 

Tony read it at first with a little smile that slowly sank. He was pretty sure he wasn’t the cause of this little downturn. But he still wanted to pull Grant through letter and find some way to distract him. He could remind Grant it was his turn to pick the movie for starters. 

> **March 2**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> If I did everything I wanted I would be making a time machine work. For sooo many reasons. There’s just a factor I can’t figure out or use to get all the way there. I’d also want to take you back with me. We deserve some adventures when nobody would damn well care. 
> 
> I’m sure there’d be adventures with Franklin too; he might sometimes galavant with off with a woman. Might get chased out of town. Might get his heart broken. But yes, the time travel adventures are something I like too. We’d go back and grab him before he got in too much trouble. 
> 
> I thought I had your brows, but you’re telling me they are thicker? Do not make me bring out the Groucho Marx brows Grant. I will do it. You can’t stop me. But augh, people can shape them and they can change. You don’t have any neat eyebrow scars or anything…. Know what. Pausing the knight’s adventures. We are going to play with your eyebrows and not your hair this time. 
> 
> But, Grant, I will be fine. I am so sure of it. The war will not hurt me. Also I’ll find a way you can hear me. Sadly a record would not fit in the box. Not sure you’d want to listen to me ramble for whatever would fill it either. Might start singing strange songs and then where would we be? 
> 
> I want you to be safe too, you deserve every chance to do well. I think you should get some sun every chance you get. It would be good for you I think. 
> 
> I don’t know about you but February is such a weird month. I would rather hibernate than go through it again. Glad it’s over.
> 
> Sleep well,
> 
> Edward
> 
> PS - Jericho is nearly done.

Tony sent the letter with a small assortment of drawings of Grant with different sets of brows. Sometimes growling about weird torture with tweezers. One of the drawings was with the Groucho Marx Brow with an angry “No!” 

\---

> **March 7, 1941**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> You with a time machine sure would be dangerous. I can only imagine you jumping from century to century, just chasing that next discovery. Somehow I bet your mind gets you into a lot of mischief, especially with your imagination. You bored must be an absolute nightmare. What do your friends do to keep that wicked intellect of yours occupied?
> 
> And no, the brows are not right. We got distracted with my shoulders! Groucho brows are a couple steps too far, though. You made me look like I pluck my brows or something; and, I am just not that motivated with my appearance. Franklin, on the other hand, is that much of a dandy. He spends more time grooming before a date than I spend in a week. 
> 
> Even if you could send a record, I would not be able to listen to it. Franklin’s family has a radio, but that is about the only device we have. Well, maybe Pendragon or one of his friends would have a record player. So, I suppose I would find a way. I bet you are the type to have a lot of records that you listen to. You seem the sort that would listen to lots of music, dancing around in your garage. 
> 
> I just …
> 
> I do not like talking about it.
> 
> You know how you have trouble with your dad? How he made you feel and that sort of thing? I, uh, do not have any good memories of my father. I was born not long after he left for war, so I never got to meet him before. Ma always said the war changed him - that it made him sick. All I know is that the man who came home was a wild drunk who would take his temper out on anyone at the drop of a hat. All my memories of him were tiptoeing around, trying to escape his notice. Hiding under the mattress in my room when he started screaming at my ma. The bruises and welts from when he would catch me.
> 
> I hate him. And I always resented kids who had dads who loved them. Because I thought, ‘Wow, I must be awful. If I were a better kid, maybe my father would love me.’ But instead, he finally decided he was sick of us and left. February 10, 1928. So … February is a bad month to begin with. Ma and I both preferred to pretend it did not exist, you know? And everyone getting all obsessed with Valentine’s Day has just made it worse. I would always try to bring home Ma some flowers for the 14th, just so she had something to smile about. 
> 
> She always said she could never love another man the way she loved my father, because when he left he took her heart with him. I do not think I can ever forgive him for hurting her like that. 
> 
> I am grateful for Franklin’s pop, though. He is a real good guy, and he did his best to help raise me. Taught me and Franklin how to shave, though I almost never need it. He tries to help us find work, and he told us how to be safe when getting with dames. But it is different, you know? He will never quite be mine.
> 
> -Grant

\---

Tony was laying in a metal tub of ice in his garage (because the garage had a handy drain on the floor), and his back was screaming at him. Moving was definitely not an option, which meant it was time to test out a bit of code he added to Dum-E in the most recent update. “Alright kiddo, bring the letter my way, please. Because I sure as fuck am not leaving this tub,” Tony asked, watching Dum-E beep and process the command. Tony smiled and then winced as he moved wrong. “Yep, yep, not moving.” 

Tony watched Maria frown as she came back down into the garage - a bucket of ice in hand. “Alright, this should be enough ice to make this work. What’s Dum-E doing?” 

“Processing a new command I popped into his programming last week. There he goes.” Tony grinned as the bot finally made his way toward the brunet with the letter in his claw. Tony watched him with a grin and then yelped as the bot nearly dropped the letter into the tub; catching it in just time. “Okay, close enough for now, thank you. That was nearly a disaster.” 

“Tony Stark reading a pen and paper letter. Who’s it from?” Maria asked with a weird little grin. 

“Either a cute blond artist who breaks his phone so often this is just easier. Or his friend who gets his phone broken by his exes throwing them. They are great guys,” Tony grinned, figuring that would probably happen if Grant or Franklin were to have something like iPhones. “They refuse to let me give them phones. So letters it is.” 

“Oh lord,” Maria snorted before dumping more ice on him. “Is this your artist friend that you have a little gallery over there for?” 

“Yes, “Tony sighed as his back finally started numbing. “I sometimes think he’s trying to be a little punk vigilante. But ends up getting his ass kicked a lot. He’s also the one that likes the vintage-looking pictures. What are you thinking about?” Tony asked as Maria looked over at the darkroom.

“You’ve mentioned that he gets his ass kicked a lot. It doesn’t sound like he knows how to fight very well. We could teach him a bit. I think it’d be fun to make a vintage-looking fight handbook or something. Just don’t make me wear a dress; I would split the side seams so bad,” Maria said - almostly blandly. 

“He already knows you’re butch as hell. Thinks you and Pepper should try dating. Remember he saw the Shakespeare night pics,” Tony added as Maria shifted her weight. She was standing very still, like she was holding her ground. 

“That would not be professional. And I really wasn’t professional that night,” Maria replied firmly, before dropping her shoulders. “But doing something like that would be a great project while you’re recovering from this. Jarvis can snap the pictures so Rhodey doesn’t see you being owned again.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be fun. If nothing else Grant gets some new art references,” Tony pondered as he sank further into the tub. 

“For some buff Amazon, sure. You are only in there for five more minutes, Tony. Don’t get too comfy,” Maria muttered as she started pulling on a shirt and hoodie over her top. Tony set the letter aside on a nearby table in a maneuver that would have made him swear like a sailor a few minutes before.

“Yes ma’am. I’ll uh, I’ll do that. We’ll plan more tomorrow. But yes, I think he’ll like it,” Tony nodded as he shivered a bit. Maria left the moment he started emerging from the tub and waved a short goodbye.

Getting out of the tub and onto his handily towel-covered couch was easier than getting into the tub at least. “Friday, remind me to thank Maria again,” he muttered as he dropped onto it. 

“Got it, boss,” she answered as Tony dried his hands and started towelling himself off. He then carefully grabbed the letter and opened it as he leaned back. Tony read his letter as he turned over and slowly stretched on the couch. The garage was warm enough that his shorts had dried off already, and it was doing wonders in lulling him. 

“Friday, you mind annotating what I’m saying? Starting in five seconds. Document name draft one since I don’t want to write a letter twice right now.” 

> **March 11**
> 
> Grant.
> 
> I would have way too much fun with a time machine, but I wouldn’t go alone. This is why I would drag you. Just pluck you up from Brooklyn and go roaming. I’d see Franklin and probably find you sooner or later then tell him I was borrowing you for an afternoon. I think Rome in the ’50s would be done with this conflict and make your fingers practically itch with the need to sketch everything. Or maybe… Greece. I’m not sure exactly where else yet. But Japan would be amazing too not sure what time period would be best though. Even just Brooklyn of the future would be amazing to you. Bet you it’s gonna be the site of so much change Grant. I know it. 
> 
> And yeah you’re right. So just a touch bushier? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for you to try to fiddle with them, I’m sure Frankie can offer you some pointers. I’m pretty good at occupying myself, be it sketching out designs, working on time travel, or trying to work on gathering evidence against Obie. Also looking for the wayward doctor who had the Jekyll and Hyde incident. Though not too hard on that last one just in case he doesn’t want to be found. 
> 
> And uh, Pepper is the one who tries to stop bad ideas. Rhodey will try and then we both end up doing whatever bad idea it was sometimes. College was a very fun time for that. Rhodey would be the one to try to use the time machine to go back and kill Hitler preemptively. And I would probably help. 
> 
> I feel so called out. How did you know? Because yes, I do dance around the garage. One of the things my mother had insisted on were taking me to dance lessons. And those continued for a good while because Jarvis figured they helped me get excess energy out of my system. Which I guess they did, between that and all the building and tinkering. I would have driven people crazy. 

"My dad was like that too sweetheart. Damnit. Not Sweetheart too personal Tony. Augh. Not that personal you called ‘sweethearts’ your sweetheart. Strike that out Friday. "

> My dad was like that too Grant. And it was good ol’ Fucking Obie that provided the liquor. But this is about you. 
> 
> I wish you didn’t go through that. Neither of us deserved that shit. Neither of our moms deserved it. Been trying not to fall back on the bottle as much. It might be a family curse. Nothing you or your ma could have done would fix it. The same goes for me and my mom. So October and February are bullshit. Throw in December for me and we will have a quarter of the year written off for bullshit. Sounds good.
> 
> I never got to know my mom enough to know whether she would have been able to move on. I haven’t been able to forgive my dad for probably driving them drunk into whatever accident it was. Or even whatever happened that night. So I can see Valentines’ being ruined. 
> 
> Jarvis hasn’t really moved on from his wife either. We haven’t talked much about it. But he really is my father in all the ways that count. 
> 
> Maybe a movie or something can help us forget about the month if it’s in your budget. Just let me know okay and we can figure out something else to share or do. I’ve got a library pretty close whatever is easier Grant. 
> 
> Edward 

Later, with some editing, Tony rewrote the letter with a smile. He threw in a sketch of Grant frowning as he chewed on the end of a pencil; going all out for a single sketch with his hands and shoulders. 

On the back he writes, “This you yet? Not that I’m eager to go to war, just I want to know.”

\--

> **March 18, 1941**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> You want to drag me time travelling, huh? Sounds like a lot of commitment, if you ask me. Usually, a fella at least buys me dinner before he takes me through time and space. Plus, how are you expecting to pluck me out of Brooklyn if you do not actually know where I live? The borough is pretty big, after all. A guy could hunt around for a long time before he found me. You do not even know my name. Or what I look like. If you went asking after a short, skinny, blonde guy, people around here would give you funny looks.
> 
> And yeah, the bushiness is right. Wrong shape, though. You have made me look like I am plotting something evil. My ma raised a good Irish boy. I even still go to Mass, even though … Well. I believe in God, but I dunno if He is tied to a specific church, if you know what I mean? Seems like men come in and make a lot of extra rules, things He never did say. And that never quite sits right with me. But I go to Mass because it would make Ma happy. So, uh, less evil eyebrows? Whatever that means.
> 
> Also, I get where you come from, in wanting to off Hitler preemptively. Makes you wonder just how much evil in the world would be averted if you had. A woman on the first floor of our building stopped receiving letters from her sister in Bulgaria a couple of weeks ago. They are real worried. Last she heard from her sister, the Jews were being gathered up for something. Franklin’s Ma says that it is never good when a government starts gathering up a single group of people, but especially not anybody associated with Hitler’s government. With each month that passes, I cannot help wondering what sort of evil we simply are unaware of behind enemy lines. Who is paying the price while we sit here, claiming this is not our war to get into? It seems like the whole world is at war, begging for our help, and all we do is wait around for something to go wrong. And I bet it will. The Japanese and Germans and Italians will not just let America sit back and do nothing; that would be a strategic error. Better to strike us while we are complacent and unready. If I were the president, I would already have prepared our defenses and started training troops. Make sure every needful thing was in place so we could be successful.
> 
> Sorry. Pendragon tells me I talk about politics too much. That it is off putting for fellas.
> 
> And I would pay money to see you dancing in your garage. It would be real fun to draw you dancing around or working on your cars. I bet you smile a lot while doing either, and that would be … real fine.
> 
> I wish both of us had better childhoods. Imagine if we were just a little bit less screwy; what a novel idea. But, it is what it is. I guess all either of us can do is to be better fathers to our own children. And by God I mean to. Because, I do want children. I may not want a wife, but I do want a family. I think I could at least do better than my father, though that is a fairly low bar. Maybe I could even be a real swell dad, someone who is able to make their kids’ lives amazing, you know? Teaching a daughter how to properly throw a punch, teaching a son how to shave, watching them as they slept – knowing that I helped keep them safe and happy every day. That is the real dream. Honestly, though, it seems even more of an impossibility than marrying a man does.

But my budget might be able to take some entertainment this month. If you peep your eyes onto the April edition of Harper’s Bazaar, be sure to admire the cover for me. It is really something else. Maybe this month we could try reading? The only picture coming up that we might both like does not come out until the end of April – the new one with Cary Grant. Penny Serenade.

-Grant

-

Dangling from a wire rig connected to the ceiling, Tony couldn’t help but muse on the truthfulness of Grant’s words: him and boredom were not a good combination. After all, he had phone upgrades for days prepared on a phone he hadn’t even released yet. He had easier to clean and maintain ammo cartridges nearly ready to fabricate. He had new targeting systems developed. He made better shaped bluetooth headpieces. Tony might have even built a tower out of screwdrivers. A lack of hangover meant a lack of impaired function. 

Which meant boredom.

Tony placed the final piece on his box pyramid as he heard the flag raise on the mailbox. The brunet cringed as Dum E barreled into the pyramid, taking part of it out in his rush for the mailbox. “Oh Dum-e,” he sighed, still casually dangling in the air. “Alright bring it to me.” He still had a notepad and pencil in his pocket at least. The sound of some distressed beeping as Dum-E wasn’t completing his command made Tony whirl around in the harness to give the bot an unimpressed look. “I did not install a telescopic arm on you for you to forget it’s there. You can definitely reach me,” Tony sighed as he used the projected keyboard to manually get Dum-E to pass him the letter. Tony read it as he carefully sat and swung, legs kicking comfortably. And, well, since he was there already, he remained in the harness and typed out the first draft of his reply one-handed as he read.

> **March 23**
> 
> Grant.
> 
> I have bought you food! I even made sure your plus one that was making sure you were safe ate too. I even got your ma flowers. Sounds like I’ve gone above and beyond your minimum, so when do we leave? Do you have any era’s you want to make a pit stop in? I would be utterly okay visiting Van Gogh himself. Da Vinci, too. So many artists and places would be fun with you. And while I could ask for a spitfire blond, I think you’re right that it might prove challenging. It would be easier to look for Franklin. You gave me a lovely portrait of him and his family. I am still offering the option for you to deck me, and then we’ll go roaming.
> 
> But I don’t mind the thought of having a meal with you too. I would enjoy it.
> 
> Do you have any ideas for things you’d want me to design? I’m down to design silly stuff because I can’t show the board everything since Obie is bound to use some of it somehow. And I’m starting to become a bit paranoid that stuff is missing. If I could lock everything and make sure Jarvis was safe, I would just take a vacation. So, I guess I just need a mental vacation - fun things to design. Do you have anything you are looking for? 
> 
> I think I will use Sir Van Gogh for the next eyebrow experiment. Anyone you have in mind as being a witch or wizard that would play with your eyebrows for shits and giggles? Or I might just draw Katherine Hepburn. And then try at your brows. 
> 
> Grant, religion is a mess. People are always going to make bullshit out of translations. They are going to make bullshit about the testament and everything. It’s the most corrupt bunch of people in the world that are looking to make sure people higher up aren’t encouraged to look after the ones they should properly. Anyway. 
> 
> I’m sorry for your neighbor's loss. I’m not sure it’s going to get better for a while. If you or Franklin have family over there and they are saying horrible things are happening... Believe them. 
> 
> Also, I would happily dance for you, with you, and teach you to dance. Garage or anywhere you feel safe to. My record player and collection would be yours to use at your leisure.
> 
> I’m a bit anxious if I were to ever become a father. I keep thinking I would mess up somehow or become as messed up as the other guys in my family. Good ol’ family curses you know?
> 
> I saw the piece you did for the cover, and Grant, Grant, Grant, that is fantastic. I love her hair. I like the movement and the colors are great. And that’s your art on a cover! I want to use it for wallpaper. It's so stunning. 
> 
> Is your taste in books more cheerful than your taste in movies? I don’t mean anything bad by that; just we are not having luck with movies so far. I might have mixed up movies because there was something with spies that I thought was a thing. Might have just been a script. 
> 
> Don’t give up, Grant. We just have to live and hope for a kinder future. I’m hoping for that someday too, if not for me, just for so many deserving people that would take such good care of so many kids. Also the bullshit of how older kids don’t get adopted. You bet your ass almost any queer couple seeking to adopt would be amazing to those children. Especially if they were allowed to marry. Augh. 
> 
> Are you suggesting Penny Serenade because of Cary Grant? Because yes. I will happily join you, just to imagine you being a mess over Cary. He’s probably going to be phenomenal. Of course now I forget every book I’ve read. Any ideas Grant?
> 
> Edward

“Okay… time to get down,” Tony muttered out loud as he looked at the ground. He reached the controller for the rig and let it set him down gently. Once the harness was stripped off, he carefully set it back on its hook. Then, sauntering over to the couch, he settled himself back down on the cushions to doodle. On one screen, Tony began pulling up reference photos for Katherine Hepburn while searching for eyebrows on another. Finding some good ones, he pulled them up to a bigger size and began to doodle the woman as a witch. She was, of course, cursing Sir Grant with different eyebrows in each frame. 

“Boss this is a weird hobby,” Friday quipped as Tony settled into the sketching.

“No shit.”

He sent the letter forty minutes later.


	13. Oh Look at Me Now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The planning for gifts begins, and Steve is making headway on his New Years Resolution.

April in New York was still on the chilly side - at least for someone like Steve. But there was sun and the promise of summer warming things up enough that everyone seemed to be spilling outside. The streets were full of the sounds of laughing kids and women exchanging news in at least five different languages. It added a softness to the usual bustle of the city; a humanity the cars and other vehicles lacked. Steve thrived on it.

Struck by a sudden bout of whimsy, he pulled open his dresser and dug about to find a specific envelope. This one was a bit dog-eared from how long it had been kicking around along with his undershirts, but it was still safely shut. Inside was a handful of coins Steve had carefully set aside for a day where he felt real good - a day where the weather was fine and his lungs no longer ached from the case of pneumonia. A day like that is a beautiful Monday.

Tucking the money into his pocket, Steve hemmed and hawed for a moment before also pulling out the dollar Eddie had sent him a few weeks back. The letter that had accompanied it had asked if the blond would be willing to take a photo at one of those new booths. Steve wasn’t so sure he would send the photo to the other man, but it would be nice to have one. In case he ever changed his mind. And, if he remembered right, Coney Island had one that had been installed after the World Fair. If not that, then they certainly had photographers for any tourists that wandered there or young couples taking a holiday. He would make it work.

Smoothing down his hair as best he could, Steve went down to the street and walked far enough to catch the trolley. At Pacific Street, he then got aboard the subway, cramming as best he could against the wall to avoid the press of the midday crowd. A quick switch to the West End El, and in a (relatively) short time, he had arrived. 

Coney Island was a sort of sacred space in the borough. It was one of the few places where no matter the color of your wallet or the language you spoke, you could come and escape the worries of reality. It was bright and loud and vivacious; another world compared to the stoic stone of the city. And sure, it was a bit early for the big crowds, since school was still in session, but there were still enough people present to make it feel overflowing. Everywhere he looked, Steve saw a scene he wanted to paint, and it made a wide smile turn his lips, making his cheeks ache from the force of it. 

And the smell! Steve nearly started to salivate when he caught the scent of the corn dogs and funnel cakes; the popcorn and pies; the hot dogs and clam bakes. It all smelled divine. Edward would certainly want him to spend at least a little of the money eating, Steve was certain. Surely that was part of what the other man referred to as “treating yourself.” And maybe he could spare some money to ride on the Parachute Jump or the Cyclone. Just to live a little. But before he did any of that, he had to see about getting those pictures made. (It just wouldn’t do for his hair to be a wreck in the photos; Edward would never draw his hair right then.)

As he meandered along the boardwalk, Steve noticed something that caught his attention: a flower cart. The start of an idea worked its way into his head as he drifted closer. Going over, he purchased a bouquet of red and white flowers - cheerfully noting that there were no hydrangea in sight. He then carried it with him as he walked, carefully cradled in his arms. About halfway down the boardwalk, a young man with a camera stopped him. “Can I take your picture?” he asked, smiling crookedly.

Steve blinked. “Me? I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”

The younger man laughed. “I know. That’s why I want a picture. I’m trying to capture the spirit of Coney, and … I dunno. There’s something about you. So can I?”

Shrugging, Steve shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I guess? Any particular way you want me?”

Setting up his camera, the man lined up the shot. “Just like that is perfect. Hold still a minute …. And perfect!” Covering the lens, he beamed at Steve. “You look just like I wanted. Say, who are the flowers for?”

A particularly vivid blush settled on Steve’s cheeks. “Um. For my date. I can’t seem to find where I’m supposed to meet them, though. The photo booth?”

“Oh! Keep on going down towards where the freak shows and blue tents are. You’ll find the booths right over there,” the stranger explained helpfully. “If you hit the rides, you’ve gone too far.”

“Thank you!” Steve patted his pockets. “Do I owe you anything?”

“Nah, consider it a fair trade. I get your photo, and you get directions!” With a laugh and a wave, the man started off down towards the beach - camera in hand.

Shaking his head, the blond turned to follow the stranger’s directions. They were at least easy to follow, and he soon found himself scurrying past the blue tents with their pinup girls and provocative posters. 

The sight of the photo booth served to make Steve stop short. The Photomatic. It was an almost obscenely bright green on the outside and proudly declared “Your photo already framed - one minute” on the metal exterior. This was it, he thought. A photo that would capture him as he was - not through the eyes of anyone else. 

He let out a slow breath and checked to make sure the stall was empty. Then, sliding inside, he pulled the curtain shut behind him. Squinting at the instructions, he read them carefully. First came adjusting the seat so his eyes would be at the right level. It was almost comic just how much he had to raise it; whoever had used the booth last must have been a giant. He then sat down, squirming back into the seat so he did not feel like he was about to fall off the edge. Steve turned slightly at an angle, like the instructions said, and carefully pulled out a quarter. “I only hope this works,” he muttered, still not certain of the technology’s capabilities. Once he dropped the coin into the machine, he could hear it begin to whirl.

Before the lights could come on, signalling the start of the photograph, Steve lifted the flowers so they covered the majority of his face. Only his eyes, which were sparkling with impish delight, peaked over the top of the bouquet. He held as still as he could until the lights clicked off, signaling that the photo was complete. Steve let out a slow sigh and hopped off the chair. Parting the curtain, he stepped outside and waited by the little slot for the photo to appear. And, when he heard the distinct little clang of the metal frame hitting the tray, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Stooping, Steve carefully pulled out the photo and gazed down at his likeness. His hair was a bit feathery as it swept over to the side of his face, and the stark shadows of the booth made his eyes stand out - even in black and white. The shot was surprisingly good. Almost like Steve was offering the viewer the photos, hiding shyly behind them in a bout of nerves. It was cute. And definitely not platonic. Slipping it into his coat pocket, Steve went back into the booth and sat down once more. Another coin, and another photo. This time, though, Steve gazed into the lens with a soft smile. Sure, the photo wasn’t as pretty as the first one, but it was definitely safer. With a nod, he slipped the second photo into his pocket before leaving the flowers in the booth, hoping someone would find them and enjoy them before they wilted too badly. 

By the time he got home that afternoon, Steve was utterly exhausted. He carefully put the two photos on his bedside table before collapsing on his bed - barely managing to kick off his shoes before he fell asleep. The moon was up and the apartment dark by the time Steve woke up. Crawling out of bed, he puttered through making dinner and lighting a couple of the oil lamps around the room. He ate mechanically, using the time to read back through Edward’s last letter. 

Still a little blurry, Steve washed off his dishes before grabbing a sheet of paper and his favorite pen. He considered adding one of the photos to the envelope, but something about it felt wrong. Especially because Edward was still trying to get his features right in the drawings of Sir Grant. The mystery could stand to go on a little longer, and he could send the photo later. 

> **April 2, 1941**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> Nah, see, it does not count if you are not there to share the meal. You would specifically have to take me out for food for it to be valid. Since you only sent me money to get food, it does not count. Them is the rules.
> 
> How can I make fun of what you order and try to steal your food if you are not there with me?
> 
> If I could pick any time and any place to go, there are definitely painters and thinkers I would want to meet, sure. The moon would be fun if we had a way to survive there. I imagine the view is awful pretty from up there. And I would like to meet Oscar Wilde. Just to thank him. For being visible in a way that gives folks like us someone to hold on to. Because I think it is important for heroes of all walks of life to be visible so that other people, ones who are like them, can gain strength from them. And it is easy to feel strong when everyone is like you. But if you are different? Not so much.
> 
> If you want something to design, how about a way to keep bath water warm? It seems like the water always gets cold before I have a chance to get real clean. Or maybe something to make the air cleaner. Seems like I cannot walk through the city without choking a little on all the smoke. Though, if you want something more nonsensical, how about a way for a person to fly without being in a plane? A jetpack maybe. Franklin would be in awe of you if you managed that one.
> 
> … I also have the feeling my eyebrows are a lost cause. You might have better luck with trying to fix my jaw some more instead.
> 
> And with the war… I believe the bad things that are managing to get out. Living in the neighbourhood I do, there are a lot of fears. A lot of whispers. Some people have been talking of moving out to the country, just in case the worse should happen. Might be a better chance of hiding out there than in a place like New York. Because if there is an invasion or someone decides to drop a bomb, we are basically a sitting target. And that scares folks – with good reason. Me? I doubt I will survive the war one way or another. So really it just seems like a matter of where I die and how.
> 
> You make me want to survive, though. Having friends like you and like Franklin and Pendragon… it keeps me anchored. Keeps me going a little better than I do on my own. I am grateful for that.
> 
> I think you would be an amazing father, Eddie. Honestly, you seem like you would put your child before the whole world – do everything you could for them. And the fact you know what was bad about your dad and your grandad… I dunno, sometimes just knowing what shape the danger takes can help you avoid it. So, no more creepy men who ply you with alcohol, and you should be golden, alright?
> 
> And thank you. Honestly, it is not my usual style. George had a real specific vision for what he wanted, and I think I was able to translate it well. He said I should probably be able to do a couple more things for them, through the year. I am going to be attending a few get-togethers he is hosting, just so he can introduce me to more potential clients. Not sure if I really believe him, but he said I have the sort of talent money cannot buy. I think he is just trying to convince me to get to know him better if you know what I mean. He is too sharp for my taste, though. Now if Ben were single, that I would consider. I have always been a bit weak for a man who was musical. But he and Peter are so perfect together, I do not think I could ever get in the way of that.
> 
> I am honestly almost afraid to pick a book. But Franklin did tell me you and him both really liked The Hobbit? I have been wanting to read it if you would not mind reading it again.
> 
> And thank you for helping me imagine a future where people like us could get married. Where they could adopt. That would be more amazing than I have words for. Honest, I have hope that the world will someday be ready for that. Imagine how many children will be in good homes, then. And how many families that will build. Sure, they might not all be perfect, but it would be more honest. More real. I would move heaven and earth to make that happen.
> 
> And yeah, because of Cary Grant. I do not even know what the movie is about, but I have to see my man. Hopefully, it is at least decent. Or less traumatizing than Angel Street.
> 
> So, Hobbit?
> 
> -Grant
> 
> \---

Friday scanned the latest letter from Grant just before Tony left for his flight. It would be a few days before he would be home, so the company in addition to Pepper would be nice. He laid back in his seat working on the reply. 

> **April 7**
> 
> Grant, 
> 
> So then tell me about what you like for food, where you would like to go. I am extremely spoiled for choice, and sticking with Jarvis makes it hard to decide. Ana's cookbooks and the ones he has are divine. But really, for me, it's good food done right. I could happily eat some pastrami on rye as long as the rye is fresh and the mustard brown and the pastrami delicious. Jarvis misses the Carnegie Deli every week we aren't in Manhattan. He swears it gets better every time he goes - even though there's a place in California I am prepared to fight him tooth and nail that I think is better. 
> 
> Should we let Franklin be the judge?
> 
> I would happily let you steal off my plate; just be prepared for me to raid your plate if that’s how you’re playing. Hey, have you convinced Pendragon to do his thing? Especially since I think you described the proportions I give you as 'Tragic?' And your jaw! What sacrilege. What have I gotten right Grant? Can you tell me that? 
> 
> Just in case that doesn't come through, I am teasing. So I can just imagine whatever brows. Alright, how have I failed in rendering what must be a fine jaw, Grant? An even sharper angle? 
> 
> I also want to meet Leonardo Da Vinci. And yes definitely Oscar too. That would be such a blast. I think there are more heroes waiting in the wings. We just need to give them time, Grant. 
> 
> It’s going to be difficult for people under Hitler’s reign of terror. People will need to carefully band together to help those in danger hide. Or at least get out of danger. And Grant, don't give up on your guys, yourself, or me. You will be fine. I’m banking on it. I am too. They are great.
> 
> And as a father, if not golden, I will be silver; my grandfather’s hair went nearly white. So we will see. I am trying to be a better man, though times are rough all around Grant. Being away from Ty has helped a lot. Still not sure about being a father though. Maybe mentoring or something first would be better before trying to procreate. 
> 
> You did great for it not being your usual style. I cannot say I blame you for your admiration. Ben is amazingly talented. I am looking forward to seeing more from you and your art. Everything I see of your work just makes you feel so real to me. That I can find your art more places than my letters. I am so damn happy for you right now. 
> 
> There are a couple of options for your bath. One is just something that heats the tub itself the other is a circulating system. For your situation, take a bath in a small room that will hold the heat more, bubble bath if you can get it to bubble up, it does insulate the surface of the water. And put something around your tub that will insulate it more. Now if you’re making a place you have a couple of options. One is a circulating system that uses heated tubing to keep the water the same temp you had when you were filling the tub. It uses suction to keep it circulating. The other is heated tubes that just head the walls of the tub. 
> 
> Cleaning the air, in general, is a thing I want to do. Finding power sources that reduce the amount of smoke getting put in the air is a good start. There are air filtration devices for personal use short term that you can make. But I think you mean large scale and getting the funding for those is a pain in the ass. Getting people to use less coal and fossil fuel would be the better start. 
> 
> But anyway I could go on about jetpacks for a while depending on how you want to fuel them and safety. I’d rather read the Hobbit with you. There’s no harm in reading old favourites either. 
> 
> It would take the work of a lot of people to accomplish, but I honestly think it could happen in our lifetime. Especially after surviving any upcoming war okay Sunshine? Have you seen how quickly things have been advancing already? It’s amazing.
> 
> I think your man is going to be amazing in it. I’m looking forward to the movie. So how do we want to do this, two letters one a reaction to the Hobbit and the other to the movie we’re seeing or one big letter. What works for you, Grant?
> 
> Edward
> 
> PS: I might be working on a surprise for you. I think it’ll be done before your birthday.  
> And yes. Hobbit time

-

After a few days of meetings that Tony was irked couldn't be switched to another week he was finally home. The letter neatly sealed with some small sketches of trees he'd done in between meetings of what he could see from the windows. They still looked a bit too much like clouds. Pepper and Jarvis had sent pictures for him. But it still wasn't the same. Tony couldn't shake the feeling Obie was trying to isolate him.

Tony sent the letter just before Maria strode down the stairs. There's a message from Rhodey on his phone that must have come while he changed, Tony nodded and decided he'll check it later.

“Ready for Jarvis and I to school your friend?” Maria grinned as Jarvis followed with a smile. Maria waved her fingers ominously and Tony couldn't help but grin. 

“Yeah!” Tony smiled walking to the set and the mats where he had already set up the camera. Beside the mat, Jarvis set up one of his digital cameras in conjunction with Friday. And then the three of them went right into the demonstration.

"How has the training with Maria been going?" Was what Rhodey had texted him while he was changing for the training. Then Tony grinned mischievously as he grabbed pictures of the times Maria had knocked him on his ass. 

Tony sent the pictures and texted "You tell me Rhodey"

"You're landing properly at least. :p Also keep in mind she is wicked fast. It'll take time Tones before you land anything properly.." Rhodes sent back "Glad she's a good fit"

"Yeah me too, sorry about the double booking on your promotion day. Obie was insistent the deal had to be that day. I'll figure out how to make up for that honeybear. Kick ass!" Tony sent back quickly. He pocketed his phone and helped roll up the mats before Maria went home. 

\---

Steve was not entirely sure how spending so much time in February House became part of his life, but he was happy to feel like he belonged somewhere. He and Peter got on like a house on fire, and Lee started referring to Carson and Steve as her “little chickadees.” She did not baby the pair, per se, but she did fuss over them – since they were both so prone to getting sick.

April rain ran thick down the windows one evening as Steve sat listening to Ben play the piano for their little group. Arnie and Buck had been unable to tag along, as both were working late, but Steve had assured them he would be fine. After all, he knew everyone in the house, and the walk was not actually that far. But that had been before the rain started to fall. Frowning, Steve peered through the curtains at the silvered streets. “Looks like it’s coming down cats and dogs,” Lee commented lightly. “Sure you wanna go outside in that, honey?”

“Don’t have much of a choice if I want to go home, do I,” Steve teased. He flashed her a smile over his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. People wash and dry.”

“You could just stay the night, you know,” Peter said. “We do have a guest room tucked away somewhere in this place. And it would be far better than you catching your death in that rain.”

Steve playfully rolled his eyes. “I won’t catch my death.”

Moving to stand beside him, Lee lightly ruffled his hair. “Oh, Stevie. With your lungs, you really could, though. Come on. Let us put you up for the night. It would make me feel better.”

With a heavy and rather overdramatic sigh, Steve gave in with a quiet, “Fine. But only for you, Lee.”

“Thank you, honey.” Leaning down, she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Peter, why don’t you go make sure the guest room is presentable? And Carson, sweetheart, could you put on some tea? I think something warm will work a treat to fight back the chill.”

As the pair moved to answer Lee’s commands, the brunette pulled Steve back over to the couch. “How has your art been going?”

“Great. Honestly, since the cover was released, I have gotten a few tentative offers for more work.” A wide smile spilled its way across Steve’s lips, making him look like the young man he was. “I might not have to do any factory work, the next couple of months if this keeps up. And it’s all thanks to you all. Especially you, George.” Turning, he beamed at the mercurial man.

A tiny sliver of a smirk caught itself on George’s lips. “All I did was see some talent and try to hold onto it for myself. Nothing to thank me for.”

“To you, it might be nothing,” Steve protested, “but it makes a difference to me.” After a long moment where the two men stared one another down, George shrugged and allowed the conversation to move on.

As the evening oil burned into the early morning, the group finally began to wander off to bed in ones and twos. Eventually, George gestured for Steve to come with him. “I will show you to your room. You need anything to sleep in?” As they started up the steps, the brunet gave Steve a glance up and down.

Smothering a yawn, the blond shook his head. “Nah. I should be fine sleeping in my shorts and undershirt. As long as I got enough blankets, I am pretty easy to please. Poor circulation makes it a bit rough to stay warm at night.”

“Well, I think we can make sure you stay warm,” George all but purred. “Can’t have you freezing while you’re a guest under our roof.”

“Thank you, George.” Steve gave the man a squeeze on the arm. “I appreciate you putting me up for the night. I’m sure Buck will be glad I didn’t try making a run for it in the rain. He’s such a mother hen.”

“I was a bit surprised to find out you two weren’t an item, based on how he hovers over you,” George admitted. Stopping in front of a door, he twisted the handle. “Though I’m glad you aren’t.” When Steve went to walk into the door, the editor blocked the way with his arm. Leaning in close, he gazed down into the blond’s bright cerulean eyes. “Anybody ever tell you how beautiful you are, Steven?”

Stopping short, the artist stumbled back into the doorjamb. “That’s kind of you to say. I don’t think I’m much to look at if you ask me.”

George leaned in closer, his other arm coming up around Steve’s waist. “I know fine art when I see it, baby. If you let me, I’d be happy to keep you warm tonight.” 

As the brunet leaned in for a kiss, Steve braced one of his long-fingered hands against one of the other man’s chest. He twisted away, breaking the contact altogether. “It’s very flattering of you to offer, but… I have a fella.” Steve tipped up his chin and stared the editor down. 

“... You never mentioned a boyfriend before.” There was an almost dangerous undertone to George’s words, prickling at the artist’s spine.

“He’s been in California for work,” the blond said simply. “He’s an engineer, and that is where his firm has him working. But we write as often as we can.”

George took a slow step towards Steve. “How could he leave a pretty thing like you behind? Sure he’s good enough for you, baby?”

A frown worked its way across the thin lines of Steve’s face. “I think that’s for me to decide and not you, George. And even if I did not have a fella, it should be enough for you that I am not interested. I respect you as an editor, and I like to consider you a friend. But if you aren’t willing to abide by that, then that’ll be that.”

Several tense moments passed as George assessed, Steve who stood his ground firmly. Then, slowly, his shoulders sank. “You should’ve mentioned you had a fella. Ain’t right to string someone along.”

“George, that is quite enough,” Steve said, his voice pure iron. “I think you need to go to bed.” Without another word, the brunet turned and stormed off. Steve deflated once the man had stomped off down the stairs. He suddenly felt trapped inside the fine house; unsafe. The sound of another door opening down the hall made the blond almost jump clean out of his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, questions and emotional outbursts are always appreciated in the comments. We hunger for them.  
> As a reminder  
> Steve- 1941  
> Tony-2007  
> Because Tony thinks that by not putting his year in his letters he is being sneaky.


	14. The Things I love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Arnie is VIP. And MVP.  
> And things are 'Platonic'
> 
> In a pigs EYE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, a Tony light chapter.  
> Tony- 2007  
> Steve- 1942

“You alright, honey?” The warm, comforting voice of Lee came drifting down the hall. 

Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Not really.” While he had been willing to stand his ground, he knew that if George had escalated the situation there would be trouble. After all, the older man was much bigger than Steve. 

Stepping out into the hall, Lee eyed the blond. “Want to borrow my rain slicker and umbrella? You look just about fit to run out the door without so much as a hat.”

A shaky breath slid past his thin lips. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would be real grateful.”

“Of course. Just hang on a moment. I’ll walk you to the door, too.” Moving back into her room, she went to her closet to grab the items for Steve. When she returned, she passed them over with a wan smile. “And I know, you’ll get them back to me when you can. Just don’t make me come chasing you down to get them.”

He slipped into the slicker and pulled the hood up over his head. “Thanks, Lee. I appreciate it.”

Taking his elbow, the woman started for the stairs. “Don’t mention it.” She glanced over him. “So what’s your fella’s name?” Startled, he looked up at her. “The walls are thin. Not many secrets live here.”

His gaze fell to the rug as they continued walking. “Edward,” he finally murmured. “He’s in Malibu for work, right now.”

“Edward is a good name,” she mused. “I’m glad you have someone, chickadee. He better take care of you - you tell him that for me.”

A laugh almost slid past Steve’s lips. “I will be sure to tell him you send your warnings. Eddie was pretty impressed when I said I’d met you. He’ll be honoured to have been threatened by you.”

“Smart man,” she said with a wicked grin. “When he comes home, you’ll have to introduce us. I am very curious to see what sort of man caught your eye.”

Stepping out onto the porch, Steve pulled the slicker tight around his body. “I’ll be sure to, Lee. You two would get on real well, I think. He’s almost as much mischief as you are.”

“You take care of yourself, chickadee.” She hesitated. “And don’t be a stranger. George will be sore for a while, but I’ll have words with him if I need to. You belong here as much as any of us do.”

He hesitated. “Thanks. I will see you around.”

When he got home, the blond carefully hung the slicker over the tub so the water could drain off the fabric. He also leaned the umbrella in the tub after giving it a good shake on the landing. Sighing, Steve then looked down at his hands, which had not stopped shaking since the moment George had loomed over him in the hall. “You’re fine,” he growled at himself. “You’re home. Door’s locked. You’re fine.” His fingers continued to shake as he unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it into the laundry basket. Soon after his socks and slacks followed.

Moving to sit on the edge of his bed, he lit the oil lamp with a trembling hand. Once the lamp flickered to life, he jammed a hand through his hair. Then, slowly, he opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out Edward’s letters. Curling up against the headboard, he slowly began to read through every single letter. His eyes were red with exhaustion as dawn broke through the morning haze and illuminated the most recent letter.

Looking back, Steve could see it all so plainly. The way Edward had casually flirted and kept his distance. And then the way it slowly bled into something better, more honest, as the letters continued. Steve knew his feelings for the other man were simply not going away, not even after the entire situation with Ty. Maybe they never would. Holding the letters to his chest, Steve closed his eyes. “I hope it’s okay,” he murmured to himself, “if I love you for just a little while, Eddie. I promise I won’t tell.”

After a short nap, Steve finally sat curled up in the windowsill. The rain had come back, washing out the streets into a grey haze. He had wrapped a quilt tightly around his body, just to protect his chest from the chill in the air, as he considered the blank page. Somehow, it was even harder to write Edward after acknowledging the way his feelings kept bubbling up stronger and stronger. But, he had to try. _Just keep it platonic,_ he thought. _We’re old buddies._

> **April 12, 1941**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> I have to be careful with food, since I seem to be allergic to more things than I can count. But I love going over to Arthur Avenue. They have the best Italian food in the city. I know Manhattan claims they do it better, but they are deluding themselves. Nothing like a big dish of pasta or a bowl of minestrone to make the day better. They know me in a lot of those joints; I helped paint some of the outsides of the buildings two years ago. All the Italian mamas love to tsk at how skinny I am and try to feed me. The Migliucci’s pizza is some of the best stuff you will ever put in your mouth, I swear. You ever been? I think that is where I would take you, honestly.
> 
> And Franklin being a judge of anything seems dubious to me. But, he sure loves to eat. As long as it is Kosher, he will put it in his mouth.
> 
> You are in luck, though. It is finally getting warm enough that I could survive having Pendragon draw me. He is going to come over next week; we plan to have me laying out in my bed. Figure you might as well see me where I write most of my letters. I should be able to send it along with my reaction to the movie. Or, if I am feeling very generous, maybe sooner. But it might be more fun to make you wait. I am not sure yet.
> 
> And yes, my jaw is quite strong. Franklin tells me that you could crack rocks on my jawline, which I think is a bit of an exaggeration. You are not actually too far off, but I do like to give you a hard time. More fun that way.
> 
> Sometimes … meeting famous people is not all it is cracked out to be. Yesterday I was over at February House listening to something Ben was working on. It got raining real bad, and everyone insisted I stay over so I did not catch my death. I have never stayed over before, but it seemed safe enough.
> 
> When George went to show me to my room, he decided to try to put the moves on me. I told him I had a fella, and he did not much like that. I got him to leave me alone, but Lee leant me her slicker so I could go home. She said you sound like a charmer. Wants to meet you the next time you come into town. I told her I could not promise anything, though. But I do think you would get along. You kind of remind me of each other, in some ways. In good ways.
> 
> I did not stop shaking for a long time after I got home. Sometimes, it is scary being as small as I am. Louts love to think that they have some right to me, just because I am not as big and muscled as they are. Sometimes I have nightmares about it – what if …
> 
> You feel so real to me, Eddie. Sometimes I almost imagine I can hear your voice. And your letters offer me so much happiness. Even if I never meet you, I would not regret a bit having our names thrown together. I am so proud of the way you have been working on being a better man. You are hard-working and kind and thoughtful. Anyone would be lucky to know you. Just do not give up on yourself, hear me? The world needs men like you.
> 
> And … I might need more than just a couple weeks for the book. I love stories a lot, but there is a reason Franklin tends to read books to me. I do alright with short things, mostly, but books can be a bit of a challenge. As long as you are willing to go slowly, though, we should be just fine. So maybe one letter for the movie? And I can send you Pendragon’s drawing. Then over the weeks leading to our birthdays, maybe we can write a bit about the book. Or, if you would rather go faster, I can see if Franklin or one of his sisters can read to me. I do not know why I have so much trouble reading; the teachers thought I was something of an imbecile. The letters just sometimes dance or rearrange as I am looking at the page. Maybe there is something broken in my head.
> 
> I look forward to hearing from you again soon. Watching the sunrise this morning, I kept thinking about you.
> 
> -Grant
> 
> P.S. A surprise sounds dangerous. But I am excited. We might have to count Pendragon’s sketch of me as your gift, depending on my work schedule. Thank you, though.

\---

Tony glared at the mailbox after he finished _Penny Serenade_. It was good. Very. very good. Cary could definitely have won awards for that. And yet, somehow the film still infuriated the brunet. But first Tony had a letter to write while everything was still fresh. There was also dinner to order with Jarvis 

> **April 16**
> 
> Grant.
> 
> You are banned from movie picking. Banned. Banned banned. I did not need those emotions in the middle of a movie theatre. There were a lot of them. I don’t claim to be super knowledgeable about children but there are things that went through my head. 
> 
> How Roger lifts his wife so casually is one of the cutest things. If I tried to lift you like that, you would probably fight me. 
> 
> Do. Not. Shake the babies. 
> 
> That is how children get suffocated. Put the baby in something then put it on the bed. 
> 
> And I thought Trina was going to die when she fell. Hit her head and die because that is the nature of my paranoia sometimes. It sounded super unsafe. Also Applejack was like a sweet heavier set Jarvis. 
> 
> Also his plea in front of the judge that he could keep his child was so heartfelt. I will repeat, I did not need those feelings. 
> 
> Now to actually reply to your letter, sunshine. 
> 
> There must be something about you people want to follow. Or protect in you. Pretty sure you trigger the Nona instincts too. If they want to feed you that much. 
> 
> Grant, I think both of the restaurants are kosher. If not, they serve a lot of latke and matzo ball soup for not being Jewish. But I will happily have pizza with you.
> 
> Oh, Grant, I could have warned you about that. The higher up some people are the more snake-like they get. I am glad you are safe and the next time you see Lee, kiss her cheek for me please or whatever you feel most comfortable doing. 

Sunshine, Grant, you can't control your nightmares but you have just made a decision for me. There is nothing wrong with your intelligence. I don't think you are alone with that difficulty with letters and numbers. But there are ways to make that easier. Including yes, having people read things to you.

Tony changed to a regular pen "Friday can you bring up I guess… comic font." Tony mimicked that for the rest of the letter.

> Is this easier? And yes I can try to read through the book slower. I go through books very quickly. Be it textbooks, novels, legal documents. Damnit Grant you have dedication for deciphering my chicken scratch. Thank you. 
> 
> I think about you a lot. And imagine you lounging sometimes sketching away while I tinker around. It makes the place feel less empty when Jarvis is working on his family affairs. I am about to work on the writing portion of the gift and once that dries it's with you. I can't shake my excitement about seeing you. Even if it's not your face. It is something. 
> 
> I think the gift might help. There's also Maria's writing in there too. 
> 
> Grant. I think Obie is getting suspicious that I am not going out as much. I have this idea that feels like a step backwards but would let him lay off. It would attract attention at least but my replies to you might be more delayed than I would like.
> 
> Mostly it's getting seen with a bunch of women. And such. I think that might help. Uphold a 'wild party lifestyle' Haha. You know I am shocked a few things haven't made it anywhere. I think I want to just have some tea with Lee, and maybe add a splash of Vermouth instead. That would be nice. 
> 
> Grant. I am becoming an old man at 22. Save me. 
> 
> Edward

Tony almost wrote yours. He almost wrote yours at the end of a letter where Grant was just talking about someone coming onto him way too strongly. And creepily. 

He had to cool his jets. And then get on some jets and make some calls. But first, he had to finish penning in some additional advice before sending his letter.

The guidebook he and Maria crafted needed to be sent too. 

\---

When it came time for Arnie to draw Steve, the blond was a bundle of nerves. While his body had gained more muscle after his illness in the winter, he never felt particularly comfortable in his own skin. He was nothing like Arnie and Bucky; they were strapping and beautiful. And there was a corner of his mind that whispered it was one thing for Edward to hear about his figure and another altogether to see it laid out on the page. What if the man hated how he looked?

But, there was no way of finding out without taking the risk.

So, Steve was pacing in his apartment, waiting for Arnie to show up with his pen-pal-lover Michael in tow. The blond had asked for the men to come together, much to Arnie’s surprise. Steve would not admit it, but he found Michael’s presence soothing – plus it might distract the redhead from teasing too much. When Steve met the other blond for the first time, they got on like a house on fire. Where Arnie was all flash and fire, Michael was grounded and steady. It created a balance that made Steve feel more comfortable, as it curbed the redhead’s party urges and led to more days wandering museums or galleries. Michael was a math teacher by trade, but it was clear he had an artist’s heart with the way he spoke so thoughtfully about symbolism and beauty. It was easy to listen to him speak in that rich, molasses voice of his for hours as he peeled back the corners of the universe for consideration. He even enjoyed talking science with Buck; the two bandying theories like it was a game of tennis.

The knock on the door, when it finally came, nearly startled Steve to death. Clutching his chest, he willed his heart to steady. “Honestly,” he grumbled at himself before moving to the door. Pulling it open, he smiled widely at the couple. “Hey. Come on in.”

“Thank you, Stevie,” Arnie quipped, sailing by like he owned the place.

Michael, who was carrying the redhead’s supplies, simply shook his head. “Mornin’ Steve.”

“Morning, Michael. Need a hand with those?” He nodded to the cases the taller man was carrying.

“Nah, don’t you worry a bit about that. Got them this far; I should be able to get them the last little leg.” Michael paused just inside the door to toe-off his shoes before carrying the art supplies over to the kitchen table. He dropped them on top of the surface, causing the table to give something of an ominous creak. “Sweetheart, did you really need to bring all this to do a sketch or two?”

Spinning to face them, Arnie planted his hands on his hips. “Michael Bech, don’t you sass me. I could get inspired. And what would I do if I was inspired and didn’t have what I needed?”

“Perish,” the teacher drawled. “Wither clean away because the muses claimed your soul in exchange for disappointing them.”

“Michael!” A pout turned Arnie’s lips. “You’re awful.”

“Sure am,” the other man agreed. “The absolute worst.” He leaned over to steal a kiss from those pouting lips. “Makes me question your taste, what with you keepin’ me around.”

Arnie swatted at Michael’s chest. “I question it too.”

“As cute as this all is,” Steve drawled, “we might want to get started before the light goes. What do you need me to do, Arnie?”

The pair blinked at Steve as though they had completely forgotten he was even in the room. Which, he couldn’t blame them for. Their relationship was still so new, and they rarely got the chance to show their feelings for one another. It made sense they would tend to get carried away in places where they felt safe. Steve imagined he would be the same way, if he could.

Arnie took a little step back from Michael and cleared his throat. “If you could strip the bed down so it’s just the sheets, that would be good. Then I’ll need you naked and on the bed.”

The tips of Steve’s ears lit up like the sky on the Fourth of July. “Naked?”

“Naked,” Arnie confirmed. “Shorts would ruin the lines. Don’t worry, Stevie. You’ll be under a sheet. And I promise Michael and I won’t get handsy with ya. Even if you are as cute as a button.”

Scowling at Arnie, the blond brushed past him to unmake the bed. “Edward better appreciate this,” he grumbled.

“Oh honey, believe me. He will.”

Once Steve was seated on the bed, the sheet strategically pulled over his lap, he raised an eyebrow at Arnie. “Okay. What now?”

A thoughtful look graced Arnie’s features as he glanced up from preparing his drawing board. “Roll around on the sheets a bit. Muss up your hair and the bedding.”

Steve’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What?” he croaked.

“It’ll look better that way! Trust me. He’ll love it.” Arnie carefully went about selecting the pencil he wanted first. “Come on, Stevie. Light’s a-wasting.”

With a groan, Steve flopped back onto the mattress. He gave an experimental little wiggle. It actually felt nice against his skin, since the sheets were new. (It had been a splurge purchase after signing another commission contract, and it was completely worth it.) Deciding he might as well commit to it, he wriggled and twisted in the sheets until his hair was an absolute nest and the fabric was tangled around his hips. Flushed pink and just a little shiny with sweat, he flopped out on his stomach. “This good enough?”

“Perfection, Stevie. Is it alright if I move the sheets around a little for a better aesthetic?” Arnie took a slow step towards the bed but waited for permission before moving to adjust the bedding. By the time he stepped back to the board once more, the sheet was still tucked under Steve’s hip on one side. But the other side spilled off the bed in a dramatic swath. The fabric gathered neatly low on the blond’s back, showing the small dimples there, and cut asymmetrically across his thighs. With his head resting on his crossed arms, Steve’s back was twisted into a rather lovely arc that led down over the hill of his hip and along the slope of his legs. Even his toes were slightly pointed from how he had stretched, enjoying the sensation of it in his muscles. “Now just… stay there,” Arnie commanded.

Arnie then retreated behind his board as Michael settled in one of the kitchen chairs. The teacher hummed lightly even as he worked on a bit of whittling he had brought with him. As the warmth of the sunlight bled into Steve’s skin, he began to doze. By the time Arnie shook him awake, the sun had slipped far enough into the sky that the room had grown dim. Steve barely smothered a yawn before sitting up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You’re just fine,” Arnie said with a laugh. “Means you look real relaxed in the drawings, so it works out swell.” Taking them off the board, the redhead passed the sketches over. “Figured you might like a couple to pick between. Plus it was good practice for me.”

Steve’s eyebrows arched at the four different drawings. “You’ve gotten a lot better since anatomy class.”

A blush crawled up the back of Michael’s neck as Arnie snickered. “Let’s just say I’ve had a lot more access to a model recently,” the sculptor quipped. “You think they’re alright, though?”

Looking between them, Steve felt his breath hitch. “More than alright, Arnie. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

In the first sketch, the viewer seemed to be walking in from the kitchen, coming through the double doors towards where Steve was sleeping. The angle not only showed off the fine lines of his figure, but also the comics on the wall and the view out the window. Second was a sketch that seemed to be looking down at Steve’s prone figure from the foot of the bed, allowing the eye to move from his toes all the way up to where his face was hidden behind his shoulder. Then was a sketch taken more from the level of sitting at the end of the mattress. It meant that the primary focus was on the way Steve’s ribcage joined his back and the curve of his arms. But, just over the shape of his bicep, one eyebrow and a gently closed eye could be made out underneath the mop of his hair. The final sketch must have involved Arnie standing on a chair, as it was looking down from above at Steve laying out on the bed. In that sketch his face was completely hidden by his hair and shoulder, but Arnie had taken pains to mark out some of the most prominent freckles running down Steve’s back.

“I honestly just don’t have words,” the blond confessed.

Sitting down beside Steve, the sculptor wrapped an arm around his shoulders and drew him into a hug. “I know how much this fella means to you, so I wanted to do a good job.”

“You did more than a good job, Arnie.” Steve leaned easily into the hug, careful to not harm the drawings. “Guess now I owe you a favor, don’t I?”

A warm chuckle slid past Arnie’s lips. “Just means sometime you’ll have to do a painting of me and Michael together. We can pose for you and everything.”

Steve gave his eyes a light roll. “Nothing naked,” he warned.

“Nah. We’ll get one of those posh portraits. Like folks do when they get hitched. We can hang it in our bedroom someday.” Arnie and Michael shared a quiet smile at that, and it made Steve’s heart ache for them. Even if the pair were to live together, all anyone would ever see them as was unusual roommates and irresponsible bachelors. But that would have to be enough for them, for the time being. “But we will get out of your hair. Figure you might want to get those in the mail sooner rather than later.”

Steve blushed. “Yeah, I do. Thank you again.”

“Of course. Anytime.” Arnie quickly went about packing up his materials while Michael swept up the shavings from his whittling.

Once the pair were gone, Steve crawled back into his shorts and undershirt. He then carefully rolled the four sketches up and slid them into a protective tube Arnie had left with him. After all, it would not do for the sketches to come to harm on their long journey. He then quickly wrote out a short note:

> Eddie,
> 
> Happy early birthday. I hope you like them. Pendragon sends his regards.
> 
> -Grant

Later that evening, he traded the tube, which had the note inside it as well, with Bucky. In return, he got a rather thick package. Raising his eyebrows, Steve weighed it in his hands. “This must be the surprise I was promised.”

“Must be something fancy. Felt like a book to me,” Bucky mused. “I’ll try to get this dropped off in the morning before my shift, though. So it’s sure to arrive before his birthday.”

Steve beamed up at his friend. “Thanks. I appreciate you going out of your way to do that for me.”

“Eh, Ed’s an okay guy. Might as well help you both out.” The brunet hesitated. “I’m glad you two got everything worked out alright. You seem a lot happier.”

Ducking his head to hide his blush, Steve shrugged. “Y’know, I think I am.”

After dinner, Steve headed back into his apartment with the package still wrapped. He carefully set it down on the table before putting away his shoes and jacket. Then, nearly vibrating with excitement, he peeled back the paper to find a book - a book unlike anything he had ever seen before. Inside were a series of photographs and instructions, each detailing different defensive and offensive moves. Steve poured over one of the first pages, which was written in an unfamiliar hand. It detailed how to turn mundane objects into weapons and how to think of exit strategies. He loved every single bit of it. Reading over the letter that went with it, the blond smiled to himself. Immediately, he began to work on a reply.

> **April 23, 1941**
> 
> Edward,
> 
> Okay, but how is it my fault that the movie made you feel emotions? I just picked it because I will watch Cary Grant in anything. I had no idea it would be about all that. Honestly, though, as soon as it started with Julie saying she was divorcing Roger, I knew it was going to be a ride. And then all the drama around if they would have a baby. And the adoption! Heavens, I wanted to throttle Mrs. Oliver for being so hard on them. But then she got them their beautiful baby girl. My heart absolutely broke, though, when Trina passed away. Poor, sweet girl. No wonder Roger and Julie were on the brink of divorce. I cannot help wondering, though, if adopting another child would have solved all their issues. But, I guess sometimes you just need to tie things up quickly and get the movie over with. I will gladly let you pick the next movie, though. Let us see if you do any better, honey.
> 
> Have I ever mentioned how much I like it when you call me sunshine? Never fails to make me smile.
> 
> And if a place serves that much latke and matzo ball soup, I am sure Franklin would be alright. After all, why serve that sort of thing if your primary audience cannot eat it? Maybe if you ever get back to New York, we can go to both places. Matzo for lunch and pizza for dinner. Seems like an even trade to me. Plus we could ditch Franklin when we went to dinner, and I could keep you all to myself for a little bit.
> 
> And I was sure to pass along your kiss to Lee. She had no shortage of words with George, and I have been making sure Franklin or Pendragon or Mark go with me to February House. Oh! Mark is Pendragon’s boyfriend. They met through letters and only just got together about a month ago. I think you would like Mark. He teaches school, whittles, and loves to sass Pendragon. He is actually quite a bit like if you put my personality and Franklin’s into one person. It is nice.
> 
> And … that. Does help. I like reading comics, so it makes sense that it would be easier to read writing like that. How did you know that would help?
> 
> I am serious that I can just get Franklin or someone to read it out to me, if you do want to go faster. The last thing I want to be is a burden to you. I wish I could read fast or there was another way to read. Listening to radio programs is something I really enjoy because I can sit and listen while I draw. Sometimes I even draw comics for the stories, because I like them so much.
> 
> Your gift… Honestly, Eddie, how much work did that take? It is amazing! I cannot believe you and Maria would take the time to do that for me. It is so easy to follow. When I show Franklin, he will be absolutely gobsmacked. He and I can try to learn all those moves; might mean a couple less black eyes and broken noses between the pair of us. Seriously, be sure Maria knows my gratitude too. I could kiss you both.
> 
> And stay safe. I trust you to take care of yourself, but I do not trust Obie as far as I can spit.
> 
> -Grant


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there are reactions, publicity stunts and plans to be made.
> 
> Tony- 2007  
> Steve- 1941

Tony read the note quickly double-taking as he looked at both the message and what was apparently multiple pieces of art all rolled carefully. Multiple pictures of Grant done by his friend. The engineer thought he was getting one, but there were _more_. Tony bit his lip unfurling the first sketch, and he felt his jaw drop. The view was like he was coming back to bed. It was his first glimpse of Grant’s little apartment, where he chose to decorate the wall near his bed with the damn comics Tony drew. God, he was beautiful. His hair was a mess - a mussed beautiful disaster. For all that he sculpted, Pendragon had a great sense of light and shadow. 

Tony let his eyes drag along Grant’s shoulders, where his wiry arms plunged under the pillow. He was thin yes, Tony could practically sense just how much even Jarvis would want to feed the little beanpole. But there was a beauty in his form. The brunet wanted to crawl in the tiny bed and help Grant slide back on top of him, just hold the blond against his chest. Everything about the sketch filled Tony with conflicting feelings. He wanted to show off this picture; he also wanted to hide it away so no one ever saw it. So that nothing could ever come to hurt the blond. Especially since Grant was both all sharp edges and miraculously so soft and relaxed. And there were going to be more pictures like this? 

Tony delicately put down the first sketch and shut his eyes as he carefully felt for the next sketch. He took a steadying breath before finally opening his eyes to look. This was Grant. This was the man that he has been writing to for months, and it was only then that the brunet was getting a soft and intimate look at him. 

Pendragon knew exactly what it was like to walk back to his partner and watch them still sleeping. Just capturing exactly how a lover’s gaze would follow along Grant’s body, from the delicate shading on his feet, to the swell of his calf, to that stunning tease of the sheets. Tony didn’t want to breathe for a moment out of some misplaced fear of disturbing the man on the page. 

He really didn’t want to use the word delicate, not in relation to the firecracker he knew was under there. But the way Grant’s body curved, the way his mussed hair kissed along a thick, well-formed brow, and how he could see how goddamn pretty the man’s eyelashes were. There were such delicate details about him. “Sunshine, you aren’t allowed to talk shit about your body anymore, I don’t make the rules. Unless it’s about your asthma and circulation, then complain all day,” Tony murmured to himself as he looked at all of the sketches in turns. Then came the questions. 

In what world are these pictures something you send to a friend? 

His dick was expressing vehement opinions, and what was he going to do about that? Not that this was the first time, sure, but this response was a direct correlation to what Grant looked like. How was he supposed to keep things platonic when everything about those sketches screamed something more?

And just how was he going to thank Pendragon? 

To be very honest, there were even more questions that went through his mind. Just how would a hickey look if he were to suck one right below one of the blond’s back dimples? And things along that vein. “You are just going to be trouble aren’t you,” he murmured towards his dick, glancing down at his lap. Tony wrote a fast note.  
  


> Grant, 
> 
> Thank Pendragon for doing this a lot. And you are not allowed to talk shit about your body unless it’s your asthma and or your circulation again. You are stunning.
> 
> Edward.
> 
> Ps: So were you warm enough like that?

Tony did a quick sketch of Grant waking up from that nap. He drew the smaller man trying to stretch his back - tracing the slight bend in the spine that was no doubt the result of scoliosis. The brows were easy, since Tony had confirmation on just how full they were, and he did his best to match that beautiful mess of post-not-sex hair as much as he could. 

Wow.

What wasn’t helpful was his imagination pondering just how much Grant would bruise up from all the marks Tony wants to leave on his skin. Tony sent the note and drawing before he made his way straight to the bathroom for a shower. And if there were a few groans in there as he stood under the hot water… Well. That was between him and his hands. 

The next day Tony meandered down to the garage after signing off on the documents Pepper dropped off. And he’d made good progress on an engine that just needed the right power source. Jarvis was on his phone pacing as he spoke to a lawyer, which meant progress regarding Aunt Peggy. A good day so far. 

And that there was another letter from Grant, which always added another good aspect to a day. 

Tony grinned as he sat on the stool nearest to the mailbox and dived into the letter. “Friday, mind letting me dictate a draft to you? Let's title it draft one with today's date. Starting in 5”

> **May 1**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> Easy Sunshine. You suggested ‘Penny Serenade’ without looking at any summaries. That said it was very good so I am not actually that mad about it. I think they were on their way to start to solve their problems, but it was running long or else I think they would have talked more before adopting their boy. For our next movie, I was thinking of either ‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’ because I loved the book. ‘The Wolfman’ because monster movies are fun to figure out how they achieved effects. Or ‘Citizen Kane’. Though I am not expecting any of them to be joyous; Abbott and Costello are usually good too, and they have been doing well if we want a laugh. 
> 
> Grant, I enjoy you calling Sunshine because I think that is one of the first positive things you remember being said about yourself. That your hair gets like sunshine during the summer, and that is just damn gorgeous. I am glad that it makes you so happy. And oh my god, you’re calling me honey. You are just going to miraculously kill me without laying a hand on me, aren’t you? 
> 
> I’d love to visit you like that. All of it. Making a day of it. Meeting the people near and dear to you. Eating damn good food, and yes carting you off to myself for a while to chat. I’m going to hold that dream to myself for a long while. I want to talk to you - want it with my whole soul - but the fact Obie is a threat is not something I want near any of you. 
> 
> And thanks for passing on that kiss. That makes me feel some kind of tickled that by a wonderful proxy I kissed Gypsy Rose Lee. And I am glad the guys are going with you. Still, I am not the happiest to hear that George to some degree spoiled your enjoyment of the place even by a small measure. And I am so glad for Pendragon. Is Mark his muse? The one who helped him come up with the composition or at least inspired it? He does sound really good to know. 
> 
> There are people I know in the scientific community looking into the sort of difficulty you’re describing. How the letters kind of swim around for you. The one used in comics is a kind of font that has proven easier to read. I could write to you like this instead if you want on a more regular basis. 
> 
> Making you that guide wasn’t that difficult, I have a friend with a bookbinding machine, and I do my own picture developing. Some bits of affixing combined with both Maria and I writing by hand took a week - since we see each other for a few hours at a time daily. She was happy to have the project. If you could somehow convince Maria to be less shy about speaking to Pepper in regards to her crush we might get somewhere. You getting the shit kicked out of you less would be great. Though you were looking nicely unmarked for those drawings. Mind you, I couldn’t see your knuckles. Would I have wanted to see those?
> 
> I don’t trust Obie further than I can spit either. To keep Obie distracted, my goal is to date a couple of women Pepper knows - models. Maybe all of them, if I can swing it. Hopefully, keep him off the scent of what I'm actually doing, which is trying to find something dirty enough I can kick him off the board. I’m not really looking for a relationship with any of the women, though. I’m telling all of them something like that too. You know, bait the press, make it seem more like what didn’t happen, happened. Maintain a certain reputation. Because that is what Obie expects: that all I am good for is fooling around with drugs and sex. 
> 
> I mean, if a few of the models do want to go at it… I’m actually not sure if I’d want to. But we’d talk. Or at least just figure out a deal for appearances, because that’s what this stunt is about. Once I figure out how to get Obie out of the company and my life, in a position where nothing he says holds any leverage over me, there are going to be changes made, sunshine. 
> 
> Take care of yourself.
> 
> Edward
> 
> PS: How about by the next letter or the one after have chapter one read of the Hobbit? Is that enough time?”

Tony wrote it out scrunching his face a little as he imitated comic sans again. But figured if it would make it easier for Grant it was worth it. Wasn’t like he’d finally gotten used to handwriting with the Conklin pen. Oh well. 

\--

> **May 5, 1941**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> Pendragon says you are welcome. I am paying him back for it by doing a portrait of him and Mark like they are fancy aristocrats. They plan to hang it up in their bedroom, once they manage to get an apartment together. And yeah, Mark is his muse and probably the best thing that ever happened to him. If they could, I think they would get married at the drop of a hat. They will probably have a small get together at one point, where they celebrate their love and all that. A wedding in everything but name and legal paperwork. I know Mark wears a token Pendragon made for him; it is a really pretty necklace with their initials and some lovebirds on it. Pendragon clearly put a lot of time into it, and you can see how much he loves Mark in how much attention he crafted into every last detail.
> 
> And yes, I was warm enough. Summer in the tenement is always oppressively hot, and it seems like the season is getting started early this year. Honestly, if I am not working, I spend a lot of time lounging around painting in just my shorts and undershirt. Anything else I just sweat through.
> 
> Jekyll and Hyde could be a lot of fun. Science is a pretty powerful thing, and I am real curious to see how they carry out the story. I always wonder if Hyde would have still gone through with the experiment if he had known what he would become. He seems like the type where his thirst for knowledge far exceeds his self-preservation instincts. Or maybe it was something that went beyond that.
> 
> And if you do not like honey, I can always call you something else. Sweetheart, sugar, bird, darling, doll, dear, or even angel face. Or I can call you what I call Franklin: jerk or punk. Your pick.
> 
> I am not entirely sure why you keep insisting I am gorgeous. It is sure sweet of you to say so, though. If you are not careful, you might even give me an ego. Then I might actually become insufferable. What would you do then, hm?
> 
> I wish so many things. In fact, it almost feels like all I do anymore is wish. I wish I could see the way a smile moves onto your face; I wish I could hear the sound of your laughter; I wish I could show you the places I love best in the city. But the thing about dreaming is that eventually you have to wake up. You have to accept that they might never come true. And sometimes I wonder … how long will it be before you and me have to wake up and face reality. The world you live in is so different from mine. We would get strange looks for walking around together, since you seem to be a posh celebrity and I am little more than a starving artist.
> 
> I think … I am a little jealous of Pendragon. Growing up, he could get anyone he wanted. I never saw him go without a date or a partner on the dance floor. Or to take home. But I could never find the right partner. Now that he has the love of his life, I look at him and just wonder… why not me? Why do I not have that? It is difficult, because I do not want to talk to him about those feelings. Or even Franklin, if I am honest. Because Franklin is the same way, just with the molls. When we would go to the dance halls, the dames would swarm him, and he always gets his choice of partners. I do not think he has ever had a girl turn him down, Lee aside. Then again… I get the feeling you are the same way. Maybe something is broken in me.
> 
> But, I have taken to heart your advice about Maria. I cannot encourage her in person, as I am on the opposite side of the country. Instead, I have included a drawing she might like. I based it on a story from one of the books in the library about this poet named Sappho and the lady she admired. I felt like it suited Maria, and I hope she likes it. Sometimes all it takes is courage to see a future with someone and act on it, you know?
> 
> And thank you again for the book. Franklin and I have been practicing from it when we can. I even managed to knock Franklin on his back the other day. It felt amazing. Though, it has not helped my luck in fights with bigger fellas. The day Pendragon drew me, I had a split lip and banged up knuckles from a guy who was flipping girls’ skirts. Next time I will be better prepared.
> 
> … I understand you need to do some things to keep yourself safe. Even if I do not get exactly why, I trust you to do what is best. Just try not to forget to write me?
> 
> -Grant
> 
> P.S. - Yeah, that should work. Thanks.

\--

Arranging a date with a model was both harder and easier than Tony had imagined. Getting in touch with publicists and finally reaching the proper number so he could actually arrange it with the model herself was a whole other headache. The first model was named Hallie, and she was the Maxim May model. He had originally hoped the model Pepper knew, Pat, would be his first date; he had met her once, and she seemed nice enough. But, he made the mistake of asking for Pat’s schedule, and it looked hellish. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to make a place in her schedule next year, let alone in time to keep Obie off his tail. Pat was apologetic about being unavailable, and she was kind enough to at least give Pepper the contact information for Hallie’s publicist. 

“So this is a bit surreal. You, _the_ Tony Stark, want to have a date and say we fucked if anyone asks me. But the actual sex is optional?” Hallie said over the phone after he had explained his plan. 

“Yes,” Tony answered with a grin.

“So just, what would we do exactly when we reach my place or the hotel - wherever we’re planning on stopping?” Hallie asked with a healthy note of suspicion. He couldn’t blame her; it was a weird offer. 

“Whatever you want. I’m in an extremely complicated relationship, but we agreed that publicity would be a way to keep the press off the trail. I’ve been into old movies and some kind of pampering since my new trainer is very mean if either of those appeals to you. But I am very open to listening to what you want,” Tony offered as he spun on his stool. 

“So you’re saying it would be a standard press date, and then just an actual stay in date with optional sex. If it goes like you said it would, would it be okay if I scheduled that after a shoot? Sounds like it could be relaxing.” 

“Yes, and you can definitely say that you had sex,” Tony added with a chuckle.

“If it goes as you said, I might be able to get you Julie’s personal number. She could use the boost,” Hallie added as Tony finally set a date.

With that done, he read Grant’s letter as a small reward. Reading about the exploits of Mark and Pendragon and their relationship brought a smile to his face. But oh, the blond was out to kill him. He couldn’t stop imagining Grant lounging around with his sketchbook in the garage with his thin legs dangling over the arm of the couch. Worse, imagining him asleep on the couch in a similar fashion to the drawings made the billionaire let out a small groan. Yep, Grant was definitely out to kill him.

Tony lingered on the description of the token, recalling that they were something like a precursor to an engagement ring or kind of related to the concept. He didn’t think he’d ever reach the point of making that kind of promise to a person. Not with the shit luck he’s had in relationships. But here Tony was wondering what he would give to someone, supposing he could ever meet the right one face to face. Even more ridiculous, he was going so far as to work on cracking time travel for the try at meeting his artist in person. 

Tony let his mind shift to Doctor Banner. Bruce would know something about monsters, though so far no one had figured out if the doctor had been able to change back from the mean, green fighting machine. Or fix that yet. In terms of Jekyll and Hyde. If there was a way to bring the doctor back, Tony would be happy to speak to him. Banner’s work on gamma radiation alone was incredible. And the fascinating idea of a rage monster, if that’s what the Hulk was, actually presenting was both alarming and … kind of cool.

After reading the letter, Tony was finally left with one impression on the letter that he needed to fix right away as he wrote.

> **May 10**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> First off, I have no plans of forgetting to write to you. It’s just I won’t be able to get as much ready access to the mailbox. I wanted that out of the way first because that was going to bother me. I have no plans on ignoring you; I just will have a less free schedule. After all, we have the Hobbit to read, and I love that book. I wish I did have an easier way to reach you. 
> 
> And oh my god. I would love to see that painting of Pendragon and Mark. I love ANY spin on those stuffy old pictures; I get so bored of seeing the same portraiture. So having your friends dressed all posh and either looking fondly at each other or even just comfortably together would be such a damn treat. That is the kind of stuff that makes the thing that lives in my chest thrive. I’d love to see them happy. I wish I could forge a document, something that would allow them to marry. A gift like that would be amazing to make, or even just to help someone make. 
> 
> Grant. I repeat, are you trying to kill me? Because, yeah, I can imagine that: you in my garage, draping your legs over a couch and sketching away. Also, Sweetheart, any of the nicknames you mention are perfect. I will also accept jerk and punk. I think I’ve referred to you both in my head and to some friends as my favorite vigilante, brat, honey, my artist, (Pepper has asked literally ‘How’s your artist doing’ and I’ve told her how you’ve been). Not sure how friend-like that sounds, but I really do like talking about you.
> 
> I feel as if there might be one or two people I could ask about experiments with unexpected results. Like the sudden appearance of Mr. Hyde. There are some really damn wild experiments going on out here. Wild in the nature of the experiments and results from them. It’s just really wild all around, to be honest. It’s a changing world out there Grant.
> 
> I’ve been told I’m pretty insufferable too, so we’d probably drive everyone else crazy. Maybe you need a little more ego to keep up with me. And I call you that because you are stunning. You sound like you have this energy that draws people in. Add that to your big hands, strong nose, and stubborn as hell urge to protect people and fight. I don’t think having a little pride in your appearance would lead you to lose any of that sunshine. 
> 
> Wishing and hope are all the things we have sometimes, Grant. Don’t give up on that. And don’t give up on me. I think my friend group is way more flexible than you give them credit for. And for getting strange looks about being in my company, so what? I’d get strange looks anyway. You won’t always be starving. And with a bit of grease and less posturing I’d blend in so well anywhere that if you didn’t know my face, you wouldn’t see me. 
> 
> But Grant, honey, nothing is wrong with you. I was taught things like body language and posturing at a young age. There are people that pick things up like that really young, affecting confidence all of that. It takes practice, honesty, and knowing how to project welcoming and receptive body language. It’s a skill that can be learned. And people notice how people take care of themselves. Franklin and Pendragon sound like they’ve practiced a lot. You’ve just been putting your energy into other things, like your art. 
> 
> Maria is going to love hearing you’ve got Franklin’s sisters learning from the guide. I love it. And the art you did for her! I think I know just the frame to get for this too. I’ll tell you her thoughts after my training with her. 
> 
> I want to see Maria and Rhodey spar. He’s finally getting a break that will let me see him. He’s been busting his ass trying for a promotion. I think I’ll grab some pictures of them sparring if I can. And you will be better prepared to teach any perverts a lesson. Prepared is the best we can ask for. 
> 
> Edward

\---

> **May 15, 1941**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> I wish you had an easier way to reach me too. But, it makes sense that you would be busy. After all, you are a genius, playboy, engineer with a reputation to upkeep and a job to do. Besides, a little silence between our letters has not killed us yet. Just gives me longer to anticipate what you will tell me about next. As long as the letters aren’t about any conquests you have. I do not think I have the stomach for that, honestly.
> 
> If I get bored enough, I might send you a sketch of Pendragon and Mark’s portrait. Usually, for that kind of piece I end up doing a bunch of sketches, just so the client can pick the version they like best. The nice thing is, I have a good enough memory that I can hold onto the details without whoever I am painting having to sit the whole session. Means Pendragon will not start whining about his legs being tired or something.
> 
> And I am not trying to kill you. Just tease at you. You make it too easy to do, really. I bet you live in some fancy place with transoms and fans – the sorts of posh amenities that make it so you do not roast to death in your fancy suits. Me, I am lucky if we get so much as a breeze the entire summer in our building. Gets real miserable, whether you are inside or out. Being mostly undressed is a necessity more than anything.
> 
> Honey.
> 
> And of course you manage to know people who have done wild experiments. I should have known you would have. But, see, now you actually have to follow up and ask them. Failure to report back will make your artist very pouty.
> 
> I will say, your most recent drawing is the closest you have managed to do of me. Though I usually do not have my hair in quite that much of a mess; Pendragon had insisted I roll around on the sheets. I still am not sure why he wanted me to do that. It made Mark smile, though, so I have the distinct feeling it was probably something that would make me blush if I knew.
> 
> If you want to think I am gorgeous, I suppose I cannot stop you. But I can start to question your taste. I bet you are the type to wear garish suits and ridiculous accessories, like some sort of flashy peacock. In fact, I could see you strutting around in a purple suit, swanning around like you owned the place. Then again, maybe you do own the place. Seems your style.
> 
> It is kind of funny, how you see yourself blending into my world. But we both know there would never be a place for me in yours. My sweet bird, you fly so high while all I can do is watch from the ground.
> 
> And when you send me pictures of Rhodey and Maria, I will have fun drawing them too. Your photos give me exciting new things to paint and sketch. Some of them have even been worked into pieces I am doing for the Public Works of Art Project around New York. One of the advisors says if I continue to do such fine art, I may even get a really big project. Here is hoping!
> 
> Stay safe, honey.
> 
> -Grant

\---

Dating just for dates and social interaction was interesting. Without substances or the push for sex, everyone did become that much more interesting. As Tony worked through the calendar starting with May, it became clear this approach to dating led to far more interesting friendships. And requests for second dates. The most surprising was July: a statuesque six-foot three-inch blonde with long, long arms and legs that had tried modelling on a whim. Demi played volleyball, trying to go pro, and seemed like the type who should try acting.

Tony and his date sat in a hotel room at the end of August watching _Calamity Jane_ when the man reached a conclusion. “Grant would love this movie,” Tony stated as he looked at the screen, on which was displayed a window box filled with roses. As the cheerful “The End” faded from sight, the brunet sighed. 

“Is Grant your complicated relationship?” Demi asked as they watched the credits for the next movie Tony had queued up. 

“Yeah. It’s a lot of complications I can’t really talk about. Distance, space, time. That I am in a near-constant state of paranoia and fear for my life. But I can’t bring him into this any further than he is,” Tony admitted as he watched Demi nod along. Tony paused the credits to watch at home later.

“Hallie figures you think you might get blackmailed. Or think someone would hurt them.” She paused. “I have some questions for you that have nothing to do with this. You inherited a ton of both merch and things that might have belonged to Captain America. Do you have anything fun that you know about? Or even just fun stuff from the ‘40s,” Demi asked, cuddling her pillow. 

“I’m not an expert, but I’ve learned about the February House recently. And I have been watching a fair few movies recently,” Tony mused as she nodded. His phone pinged with a text notification, and he ignored it for the moment.  
  
“It’s my hobby. I try to read up as much as I can from the ’40s and memoirs of that kind of thing. My job and volleyball got me before I discovered my love of that era. Otherwise, I might have become a historian,” Demi chuckled before sipping at her wine. "I will look that up later - February House."

“Well is there any theory you’re trying to prove or do you just want to learn?” Tony asked, laying at the foot of the bed. He’d glanced to see her reading a book on his aunt and had snapped a pic of her during a pedicure they had done in the room. It was one of the best non-professional shots of her she’d ever seen. 

“Captain America was either bi or gay, and he’d had a boyfriend. It completely explains all the blatant pics of Agent Carter and the compass. It was her coverup campaign to make sure he was remembered,” Demi said firmly. “Bucky was in on it too, making sure to play up the best friend part. I think the only one that knew jack squat was Phillips. Because, I mean, look at who Steve Rogers was. The only people who we see talk about his past are Peggy, him, and Bucky. There was a distinct lack of other people. Why? Because they were part of the queer community. The only community after the art community that had more queer people in it at that point were military secretaries. They had to make Steve Rogers seem like a loner to fit.” 

“Demi, I support your rant, but don’t you have a flight tomorrow?” Tony asked as he grabbed the spare quilt. He turned off the mini projector as well.

“Yeah. I have my alarm set. But you support this?” Demi pondered, watching Tony move to the couch.

“He had to have made a living as an artist somehow, and you don’t get that being a hermit. Why hadn’t more people been called forward? Because something was being protected,” Tony mused as he stretched out on the couch. He glanced at their tidily piled dishes and then the lamp.

"You sure you're okay with the couch?" Demi asked from the bed.

"You are the one with the flight, I am also going to work on some drafts and can block the light from you better here," Tony explained with a grin. There was also the text from Rhodey to read and reply to. 

"Goodnight then, Tony," Demi said as she nestled herself into the bed. 

The next morning Tony drafted a letter to Grant as he waited for Breakfast to arrive with Demi. “You text him?” Demi asked with a little chuckle as she sipped a mimosa.

“When his phone works. I write letters to be really sure. I just draft them on my phone,” He watched Demi get confused, flip to amused, then settle on a soft little smile. 

“So this is Tony Stark in his natural habitat. With a boyfriend who is a technology disaster from the sounds of it. What the hell is your life? And is there a way for any of us to help you unfuck this up so you can talk properly to your guy?” Demi laughed and flashed a smile that would probably make Aphrodite jealous. 

“Not yet, but I’ll let you know if I need any help. I’m still a little confused about why you and all the other cover models of this year are so determined to help…” 

“You are even more transparent than most of our managers. A few of us are so deep in the closet we want someone happy damn it. So with that. Go write your letter, and I’m catching my plane. See you,” Demi waved, and Tony watched the outrageously tall volleyball player go out the door. 

So that was part of his life now. Still texting Patricia (Pat please), or Maxim March, had only led him to more questions than answers. How could one woman be so busy? And the strangest stories. He joked about Grant being a vigilante, but Pat. Pat made him wonder.

Rhodey had messaged him a few more times since the previous night. 

_“Are you making up for missing my last promotion by suggesting me to present the Apogee award Tony?”_ _  
__“Because this is acceptable. I am honoured you’re suggesting me to present the award to you, even if it wasn’t that.”_   
“Also you got the Apogee Award!”

Tony grinned and texted Rhodey back on the way to his car: _“It’s at least part of it. I know for a fact Obie could have scheduled it for Today even. I confirmed it with Pep. So are you liking the look of Jericho Rhodey? I could make a great pitch for it.”_

_“Tones, it’s great but I’m not liking the site. My intelligence could be wrong but I feel like there’s something gathering near that area. We are going to do as near to full security as I can pull for you okay? And I am going to drill you so much on the procedures. And I am insisting I go with you every step. We are not having another Gia situation where we are sneaking you somewhere you can hack and destroy all your information someone stole. You’re with me.”_

Tony could hear the honey bear growl through the text and smiled. He typed out a quick reply: _“Alright bear paws. Right now I promise all I’m doing is writing a letter to an artist and maybe one to his best friend. And then going to sleep. We’ll talk drills and rehearsals later. Even getting some new body armour built okay? Have a good night”_

Switching over to his notes app, he continued writing his letter to his artist.

> **Aug 20**
> 
> Grant. 
> 
> So, have the murals treated you kindly? I’m going to look for them the next time I’m out there. I also have lots of options for reading and we did talk movies. That said. Have you landed anything new for covers at all yet? Enquiring minds must know. 
> 
> I am trying to find information that I can use to get Obie at least off the board. But I am not having any luck finding anything I can present to the authorities. Nothing I can even present to the board. I have no evidence besides the fact he has been messing with my head for years. My parents are dead, and I saw the fucking wounds. But by now their bodies are so decayed it’s just my testimony with nothing to prove it. I would probably be pacing and ranting this at you sweetheart, and I feel the need to apologize about that. 
> 
> I really wish I could just fire him, but it’s a board of directors. I would need to provide a reason besides I DON’T LIKE HIM. Because he’s been on the board for years and just wheedling his way into more power. I can’t just barge in his office and steal files that way. That would be so stupid and dangerous. If I could fake my death that would be great, but it would not be responsible because he’d run roughshod over everything and it would be really hard to get back in my control. 
> 
> I still haven’t heard anything about the doctor by the way. It’s taking a lot of things to keep me from going stir crazy. So thank you for the new hobby. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. Still. He is an amazing researcher. I really enjoy how he does his papers. He has this great bleak sense of humour but still manages to be positive somehow? 
> 
> Have my efforts on the shape of your face now given me anything closer to your face? I think I might start nicknaming the different faces I have drawn now. Because that being said. I have come a long way with that. Are you still annoyed with the facial hair on what I have nicknamed the Grant Musketeer?
> 
> Though I should do something with Sir Grant. It’s been too long. 
> 
> Have you made any plans for fall yet?
> 
> Edward

Tony sent it with a doodle of a cartoon tiger stretched out in a cage with its toes all splayed and bored out of its mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Anna for the test reading and suggestions. And Welcome to the other group of characters that I was not expecting at the initial planning stage. Twice over to be honest.


	16. Chasing Cars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve asks an unexpected question, and Tony's answer is surprising.

As the summer began to bleed into fall, the pair continued to exchange what letters they could. Some letters were simply responses to chapters from The Hobbit while others were stories to fill the gaps - the sorts of things that Edward could write while on the plane or away on business. Steve loved the little anecdotes for what they were, but he could not help missing the easy conversation they had fallen into. 

In August, Steve finally had good news to write the brunet about. He rushed into his apartment and immediately set to work, trying to keep his hands from trembling with excitement.

> **August 1, 1941**  
>  Eddie!
> 
>   
> You will not believe the offer I just got. After months of doing posters and little advertisements, the Public Works of Art Project has asked me to do a mural for them. Can you imagine that? My art, as big as the side of an entire building! They are letting me choose my subject, but it has to be American. Whatever that means. I think right now they just want all of the art to evoke patriotism, so we are even being encouraged to avoid what they consider ‘foreign’ art styles. I will find out next week where the mural is supposed to go, which will help me decide what content to include. I will probably have to do a hundred sketches before I get it right. They at least have ways of printing the outline big enough to transfer onto the building, making it a bit easier to go from sketch to mural. 
> 
> But still! Can you believe it? And if I do well enough, they said they should have more murals for me to do around the city. They are trying to get more up before winter hits, and I told them I would be happy to do as many as they wanted me to. Just one mural pays well enough for my rent, groceries, and a little extra to set aside. If I could do them regular, I might be able to get more art supplies - paint and chalks and such. 
> 
> I just hope you get to see them, Eddie. Maybe I will have to paint some of your friends into it, just to give you extra good reason to come see them. 
> 
> -Grant

After dropping off the letter, Steve settled down to start sketching different ideas for a possible mural. One of his favourites involved a diner scene, where Americans from all different backgrounds filled the space. And, of course, he was sure to draw a table with Maria and Rhodey sitting chatting over coffee. Edward was happily eating a piece of pie while seated on a stool. Arnie and Michael were picking a song from the jukebox. On a whim, Steve drew himself sitting next to Edward, leaning in to steal some pie. 

\---

Tony could not hack his own company systems. He should not hack his own company systems. He was capable of it, but doing so would prove nothing because the evidence would not be admissible in any court. Which meant that Tony could not be the source of the information. And the situation with Obie was nowhere near that dire…. he thought.

Tony sat at the head of the table in one of the boardrooms of Stark Industries, tapping at the tabletop with a pen. He was waiting for the meeting to start and hadn’t brought any of the desk toys from Pepper because he needed to seem professional in front of the board. All he’d allowed himself earlier was to snap a pic of the letter he got from Grant; reading it again seemed as good an option as any to stave off the dark turn of his thoughts. With Grant’s words fresh in his mind again, Tony pulled out his phone and started typing up a reply.

> **Aug 7**  
>  Grant,
> 
>   
> You got the murals! I am so damn happy for you. Once this mess blows over I am going to see every single one you do. I cannot wait to see what you’re sharing with the world. Even if it’s just what’s okayed by Public Works. Your art on the side of buildings. And I love that idea so much; you do such great portrait work. Make sure to be careful up there. It’s awful high up.
> 
> Maria apparently has put the picture you gave her a while back up in her room. 
> 
> I’m working on a draft of my letter to you waiting for a company meeting to start. So far Obie isn’t in yet but I’d love to imagine it’s because you miraculously intercepted him on the way to his plane and beat him with a 2x4 piece of lumber. I know you didn’t you rogue vigilante. But it’s great to think about. 

Tony put away his phone as the members of the board arrived for the meeting. He tried to focus on maintaining an air of nonchalance as Obie arrived, exactly on time, and settled in at the chair to his left. Unsettlingly, the meeting went about in the usual manner. Which now bothered Tony. Because he wondered just how much of the meetings were out of his control. What decisions were being made without him? What was being done behind his back? Just who was in on Obie’s schemes? Tony focused carefully on the presentation, trying to keep his brain occupied and from spiralling further. 

It felt like one of the longest hours of his life so far. 

On a day to day basis, he had loved his job. He loved inventing, problem-solving, showing ideas off and fix-its. He wanted Obie out of his life so he could do that again; to be able to move forward finally. Once home, Tony started a bath, shoved his dirty clothes into a basket, and dumped bubble bath into the water. He could feel the way every muscle in his back was wound tighter than a spring and needed to do something about that before even trying to train with Maria the next day. Tony nodded to himself as he made a plan to do some brainstorming after his soak.

In the meantime, he could continue dictating his letter. 

“I’m gonna dictate the rest of the letter for you on the file I started earlier, ready Friday?”

“Got it, boss”

> So I am continuing to write now I am home finally. No bruises on Obie, though, as much as I wish there were. I am trying to keep from stupid shit. Basically trying not to poke the hibernating bear. Got anything you want me to design? Or should I just do some doodles of Lord Kitt and Sir Grant in different suits of armour? 
> 
> I would probably run around to all of your murals and make a presentation on them. If I were there. After I go around on my own first to see them all. 
> 
> I want to hear you talk about them. 
> 
> Edward  
> PS: Hope you’re keeping busy this fall sunshine. Get as much of the sun as you can

Tony started up a playlist Friday made of musicians that were playing around in Malibu during 1941. Yawning, Tony sent the letter after a rewrite. In it was also a small doodle of Sir Grant napping on his helmet. The brunet was getting better at both designing and drawing armor of all kinds, which, at least to him, was pretty cool. He’d even managed to do a decent tree the knight was curled up under. 

Jarvis was curled up on the couch under his knit blanket when Tony emerged from the garage. Tony glanced to see Friday had paused while Jarvis was partway through an episode of Battlestar Galactica. Tony gently nudged Jarvis with a small smile. “Hey dad, you’re on the couch,” Tony said quietly. 

“Oh, and oh good Friday had paused it. And yes I am. Do I wake you from the couch in the garage Tony?” Jarvis asked with a yawn.

“No, but are you okay?” Tony asked while he kneeled.

“Just heard about another family event I wasn’t invited to. You’d think adults would be better than petty teenagers, but here we are.” Jarvis mused as he sat up. “So how is your artist this week?”

“He’s got a mural from the Public Works. Want to help me pick some good reference shots? I am thinking of sending pictures of you, Ana, Maria, Rhodey and Pepper.”

“Ah yes. The true family shots. Ana would probably have gotten a kick out of Maria. They both garden. Or at least Maria aspires to.” Jarvis chuckled softly as he slowly moved to the kitchen. 

“Maria gardens?” Tony asked following behind his dad.

“She’s planning to. We talk about it on our jogs,” Jarvis smiled as he went to make a cup of tea. 

“I didn’t know that.”

\---

>   
> **August 12, 1941**  
>  Eddie,
> 
>   
> I will do my best to be careful. In theory, it will take me anywhere from two to four weeks per mural, depending on how big they are – in addition to the planning phase. So lots of time to feel tall.
> 
>   
> My first assignment is on the side of a grocery store over in the Bronx. I am thinking of doing a scene from a diner I like to frequent with Franklin, when we have the money for it. But instead of the usual patrons painting in people I know. Maybe some of your friends. I have included a sketch of Pendragon and Michael, plus one I am thinking of including with Maria and Rhodey. Should I put you and me in it too, honey?
> 
>   
> I hope you get to see the murals soon. If only because that would mean I would get to see you soon. Sure you cannot just hit Obie with a 2x4 and be done with it? I would not tell anyone that you had done it. Promise. It is probably selfish of me to want him dead, but I worry so much for you, sugar. And if he were dead, the biggest threat in your life would be gone. Ma would frown at me for saying that. She always thought every life had value, even the scum. We got into a few spats about that, believe you me.
> 
>   
> Honestly, you know I would have hit Obie with a piece of lumber if I could. I hope the meeting went alright. Any fun new innovations you and the company are working on?
> 
>   
> And I would love to see armor designs for them. But maybe you could do a fusion. Like, Sir Grant goes to the year 2000. Lord Kitt could have a jetpack, and maybe they drive a flying car. That would be neat.  
> -Grant

  
—

>   
> **Aug 16**  
>  To my favorite Vigilante,
> 
>   
> I’m working on a wireless phone that would hopefully be sturdy enough to survive yours and Franklin’s adventures into vigilantism. Or at least make a battery that can be recharged and handle that type of thing. It’s going okay at best. Trying to keep costs down is a nightmare. Might have to scrap it and try from another angle.
> 
>   
> Yes. Yes, put us in that mural. Grant, I would adore that.
> 
>   
> Do you want any references? I haven’t actually taken a picture of Jarvis for you, have I? I’m having everyone by since Rhodey is getting some time off at last. I think he and Pepper will probably end up being the shutterbugs this time. He’s been busting his ass so much. The letters from him aren’t as often as I would like.
> 
>   
> Sunshine, if hitting Obie with a 2x4 solved my problem and wouldn’t be murder, I would have done it. Repeatedly. I also would have used a baseball bat too. Be real through about it. 
> 
> And sure, I can draw that. Kitt being from around then would probably insist on getting him getting a haircut though, sweetheart. Or at least a really good wash. But can we compromise down to a submarine car and some really cool planes? No? Okay, I’ll try. It would be hell to try to organize traffic with flying cars. It’s hard enough with planes, Grant.
> 
> Enjoy being tall, it’s fun sitting on rigs like that.   
> Edward
> 
>   
> PS: You don’t know how much I love drawing cars. That is what I can design and draw all day. Though the armour in all of the stuff I’ve been doing lately has been getting more fun.

\---

Arnie knew that the fall was going to be rough for Steve, which by extension meant that Michael knew now as well. His friends knew that the blond was likely to go quiet during the month, hiding away with his grief. Hating to see him so morose, the pair decided they would do what they could to distract their friend from the coming month. So, one evening, the redhead and his partner invited Steve to go with them to one of the local clubs. Not for the intention of picking someone up - a first for Arnie - but simply to enjoy the performances of the drag queens. Bucky was far more comfortable letting Steve go with them (he was such a mother hen sometimes) because Michael had toned down most of Arnie’s partying ways since he disapproved of doing drugs and drank only in moderation. 

So, Steve found himself seated at a table across from the pair without his usual chaperone. Which brought with it a sort of strange freedom. Because, as much as Steve adored Bucky, the man was clearly not at home among the gay men of New York. He would fidget and let his eyes wander restlessly, as though not certain where it was actually safe to look. Steve hated for his friend to be so uncomfortable, and so was glad to give him the night to recover from a double shift instead of coming out with them for who knew how long.

Sitting in the club was … nice. Loud. Smokey. But nice. It was one of the few places he felt free to look around at men and really admire them. Nobody would punch him for staring at their shapely rear or pick a fight for being “unnatural.” Instead, he could just ogle and enjoy himself. The scenery would be better with Eddie in it, some traitorous corner of his mind added. But Eddie was not there. And, if Steve were completely honest, would never be there. Sometimes he wondered if Obediah were real at all or if he was a cover Eddie had invented to keep Steve at bay. Sighing, he sipped at his drink.

“That sounds like boy troubles if I ever heard it,” Michael commented lightly. “Things still not peachy with your engineer?”

A blush settled high and fast on Steve’s cheeks. “He ain’t my engineer,” he automatically grumbled. “We’re just… pals. Same as always.”

Arnie snorted. “You need to talk to him about your feelings, Steven. The man can’t read your mind. And he certainly can’t see how hard you’re pining from him.” Rolling his eyes, he draped an arm across the seat behind Michael. “You give off more heartbroken heroine vibes than any dame from Shakespeare. It’s getting a bit ridiculous, kid.”

The blond licked his bottom lip, weighing his words carefully. “What if … he doesn’t really want me, though? Like. What if I really am just some distraction for him?”

“Better to find out now,” Michael said gently. “He could surprise you. Want to be with you as much as you want to be with him.” He shared a sidelong glance with Arnie. “Even if it means things being more difficult.”

“Sometimes it’s better to know for certain,” Arnie agreed. “And where is that Steve Rogers fight, huh? I never seen you run scared before. Why you starting now?”

That startled a little laugh out of the blond. “I guess. But I ain’t even sure how to ask him. Or what to say to him.”

Arching an eyebrow, Arnie offered his friend a devilish smirk. “You could just tell him: Oh Eddie, I want to suck your dick. Please come to New York and come all -” Whatever else he would have said was smothered by Michael’s hand.

“Be honest, Steve. Or at least .. I don’t know. Give him an opening for that conversation. I know you don’t have much experience with relationships, but you say he has. So you could try signaling your interest a little stronger?” Michael knew it was not the best option - not nearly so much as just being upfront about how you felt - but he also knew Steve’s stubbornness. He had to work out for himself how he was going to let Eddie know he was interested in more. The man just hoped Steve would do it soon, because even he was getting sick of all the pining..and he had only known Steve for a couple months. 

Later, during the performances, Steve could not help looking around the club. He felt restless, as though he were standing on the edge of the scaffolding on a tall building with his toes hanging off the edge. As he scanned the crowd, his gaze caught on a couple that made his breath catch in his throat. A muscular brunet was seated in a chair, looking for all the world like a king, and in his lap was a smaller blond. The pair looked so comfortable with each other that it made a fierce ache burn in Steve’s chest. He could imagine being like that with Eddie - sharing those little intimacies. Especially as the brunet whispered something to the blond that made him throw his head back in laughter; nearly toppling off the other man’s lap except for the firm grip his partner had on his hips. 

As they were getting ready to leave, the smaller man hesitated before looking at his friends. “What if … Eddie wants something I couldn’t give him?” he asked, his voice unusually small.

“What do you mean, Stevie?” Arnie slung an arm over Steve’s shoulders, drawing him close for a bit of a cuddle.

The blond hesitated. “I don’t know how to be intimate with someone. And with my health being what it is, I ain’t even sure that I could give him much. I can’t even sleep through the night.”

Michael hummed thoughtfully. “Well, that’s where communication with your partner is important. Being intimate might mean different things to you than it does to him. And if he’s an experienced lover, he might have ideas for things you could do that wouldn’t be harmful to your health. A good partner would want you to be healthy and happy and comfortable.”

That made Steve pause. Eddie was a very accomplished lover - he had a playboy reputation to go with it. So maybe he would be able to sort things out between them. But maybe he wouldn’t even want those things with Steve, because maybe he felt like intimacy and sex weren’t connected. Arnie had been like that, before Michael. He had joked that he would have sex with just about anyone willing, but that being vulnerable with someone was a no-go. And yes, Steve found that deeply ironic.

But how could he find out how Eddie felt about that sort of thing?

The answer ultimately came the next day. Sitting on his bed, back against the wall, Steve looked at the myriad of sketches strewn across the blanket. He had been trying to draw Arnie and Michael standing next to a jukebox, but nothing seemed to be coming together right. So, he had switched to trying to draw Rhodey, based on the photos Eddie had sent. But somehow, entirely without Steve’s noticing, the drawing became of the engineer instead. He had sighed before simply giving into the urge to draw Eddie in as many different ways he could think of. And by the end of the afternoon, he had more sketches of the man than he knew what to do with. 

But in his hands, cradled almost like a treasure, was a drawing of what Steve imagined the man would look like asleep. The restless sleep of his curls, tossed by dreams, falling over his forehead. A smooth curve as neck joined the shoulder. Stubble, unruly and dark, ruining the shape of the man’s ridiculous goatee. Strong, calloused fingers tangled in the blanket held to his chest, a tender gesture that made him seem smaller and softer than he likely was. But most of all, dearest of all, was the tiny smile Steve had drawn on his lips - as though he were caught in a particularly good dream.

Steve wanted that. Wanted to see that. It was a desperate ache, one that seemed woven into the very marrow of his ribcage and tied into the strings of his heart. The love that he promised would never be brought to life threatened to spill out of him; had already spilled out of him in each of the drawings. This drawing, though, had that intimacy that Steve longed to share with the genius; the sort of vulnerability and reverence that could only come from the deepest of loves. And it was unfair, the blond knew, to want such things. He had been the one to draw a boundary, thick and unrelenting, between them after the incident with Ty. To want more almost seemed cruel, as though he were not man enough to uphold the boundary.

And yet…

So much time had passed. Their relationship had changed from a flighty, delicate thing into what Steve considered a true friendship. The love he felt was not based on idle dreams or reading between the lines of the letters. Instead, it was rooted in the very real person he felt he knew as well as he knew himself. But his fears that their ideas of a relationship were incompatible still loomed large in his mind. How could he test the waters and ascertain Eddie’s stance?

An idea struck like lightning. 

He would have to make it seem casual, nonchalant even. But it was worth an attempt. Setting aside the sketches, he grabbed a fresh sheet and carefully planned his response. And then, fighting to keep his hand from shaking, he began to write a letter that would change things, for better or for worse. 

>   
> **August 22, 1941**  
>  Angel Face,
> 
>   
> A wireless phone? That sure would be a miraculous device. Our building does not even have a private line, so I can barely fathom how different it would be if people had access to phones just wherever they went. Gosh. What would they even do with them?
> 
>   
> And I would love references of you. Have yourself eating a piece of pie. Maybe send me a picture of Ana, if you have one to spare? I can paint her in there with Jarvis. If you would not mind my doing so. Nice thing about a mural this size is that I have plenty of room.
> 
>   
> I will have you know, I will take great joy in being tall. Something tells me the view will be something else. Expect at least a doodle or two of whatever I happen to see from up there. Of course, it is the Bronx, so it will not be quite as amazing as if I were drawing Brooklyn. But not every borough can be as amazing as mine.
> 
>   
> And if you can figure out how to make Kitt futuristic, surely you can figure out the traffic for flying cars and jetpacks. Maybe they have ways of talking to each other that keep them from running into one another. Like the cab drivers yelling at each other. But with less cursing.
> 
>   
> Can I ask you something … a bit more intimate? You do not have to answer if you do not want to, but I am awful curious. What is it like making love to someone? I just … is it worth all the fuss?  
> -Grant

  
—-

  
The rehearsals and drills with Rhodey were repetitive and awful. But getting to see Rhodey and Maria duke it out was fabulous. Even if the two of them as a hand to hand duo fighting against him was awful. It was still a fun night.   
Tony’s eyes definitely nearly fell out of their sockets reading the question in the letter. It arrived early enough he hadn’t even fallen asleep yet.

> Grant,  
> You are going to kill me. Are you sure we are looking at the same face of mine? I’ve been called a devious looking son of a bitch a fair bit. But I am just horrifically amused by this and love it. Angel Face. Grant, that’s more likely you than me. 
> 
> With wireless phones, people would make both great decisions and very stupid decisions with those phones. It’s people Grant; they will be people about it. But I would probably chat my head off to you. My problem is making it affordable. And finding a frequency that isn’t in use by radio. Maybe a different wavelength could work. 
> 
> I know just the thing for Jarvis and Ana, but can you mail it back after you’re done? Also, your references are in here too, Sunshine. Those you can keep. Jarvis does this caramel apple pie that looks too pretty to eat. But it is so good. Got him to make it for the photos you asked for. I promise I’m not spoiled. 
> 
> I’m looking forward to those doodles you’ll make from up these. It’s funny to me, that in all of this, I’ve been the one sending you more art. But it’s fun; it’s something keeping my hands busy. And Grant I will take you up on that suggestion to make Kitt and Grant futuristic. I will also make traffic plans and routes to keep collisions from happening - maybe not this letter though. But I will because if you are planning a new mode of travel, you have got to consider safety. I actually really, really like that idea. Them pinging would help but you have to make sure people actually know how to be careful if something fails. 
> 
> As for your question … I’m probably not reading that properly Grant. It could be my lack of sleep, but I’ve read it three times and it’s still asking what it’s like making love to someone. So I’ll answer it in the contexts I can think of. If you’re meaning that kind of intimacy where you know, it’s shades being drawn and suggestive looking skis. I’ll write about it. But it varies depending on the person and relationship you want to have with them. 
> 
> If it’s someone you are in a relationship, where you’ve already been kissing them and are close with, it’s building on those feelings - just taking it further. You watch and listen, and see what feels good to your partner. Just, you aren’t limited to shoulders up. 
> 
> But if you mean just kissing someone. Well. The intent is everything. If you intend on spending a good while kissing, make sure you’re both comfortable. It’s fantastic just getting little kisses along your face to start. Both giving and receiving that. That kind of   
> affection is just amazing. Being comfortable around someone is great. If it’s having a kiss with a bony punk like yourself bracing against something is good or just sitting on a couch close to each other. Someone would inevitably wind up on top of each other, because trying to stay vertical for a long time while kissing like that is annoying. 
> 
> I should stop.
> 
> Grant, we should really talk about where we are. Because I want to do that. To kiss you, share that intimacy. I want so many things. And I either have to slow down or we need a talk.
> 
> Here’s where I am sitting. 
> 
> I am in California in a position that makes me really anxious about going anywhere near New York. I’m now in a bizarre position where I’ve befriended 13 women who are willing to lie and try to help me cover up our relationship to make sure we stay as safe as possible. But I know there is always some kind of danger in regards to Obie until I get him locked out and down. I want you to be safe. At least as safe as I have any measure of control over. 
> 
> And I am so angry and frustrated about all of that. 
> 
> Because I also don’t have any solutions for our predicament yet. I haven’t had time to dedicate properly to that. There is so much math involved, Sunshine. And figuring out work over there. A lot of things. But I have daydreamed about it. My question is. Until I figure it out, would you be content with our correspondence? Or is there more you want? I don’t know any solutions yet but I won’t know that until you ask.
> 
> Edward

Tony sent that letter and slid to the floor. He was a tiny bit proud of himself for finally just being clear about his feelings and their situation. Being the person to ask: what the hell are we? Clear communication skills being practiced; go him. Rhodey and Pep would be so proud.

He crawled to sleep finally in the garage, careful not to drop too heavily on top of Rhodey. The Black man barely stirred on the couch, merely shifting to accept Tony’s weight as they drifted to sleep. Tony’s last thought before dreams claimed him was that he couldn’t even be sure if he’d left a date on the letter, but that was fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you screaming? We're screaming.
> 
> Also, thanks again to Anna for being our reader. <3 Sorry for the delay in chapters. Py and I have had a rough couple of weeks, but we are back on track for our weekly updates. And oh boy, we can't wait for you to see what's coming. :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly letters. Some art. An important letter was answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of some of the more letter heavy chapters. There might be a surprise a little later in the week.

> **August 29, 1941**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> I know the position we are in is real difficult. You cannot come here, and there is no way I can go to you. And there is also the worry about your safety. Me? I doubt Obie would even notice someone like me, let alone be able to do harm to me. But I can understand why you would be concerned for me. If Obie knew who I was, he might try to hurt me to get at you. Is that something he could honestly do, though? Find me, I mean. Hurt me.
> 
> Because, I will be serious with you, honey. I just want to be yours. Whatever form that takes, I want to be yours. The way I feel about you has only grown the more we have written, and it survived the awfulness of last year. I would wait a hundred lifetimes if it meant I got to be with you, Eddie. You have become my northern star.
> 
> I may not be much, but I promise I will be whatever you need me to be. If that is just a friend, I understand. But if you would have me, I would like to be your boyfriend. To just know that … I am yours. And you are mine. For however long we have.
> 
> And I am sorry if that is more than you want. I wanted to be honest, though, so you knew exactly where I stand.
> 
> … And I can send the reference back for Ana and Jarvis, once I finish the sketch. I will take real good care of it until I can get it back to you. I am sorry I am not responding to the rest of your letter. I just… I cannot focus on it. My thoughts are all of you.
> 
> -Grant

\---

Tony wanted to throw up from his nerves about the response. Whether it was because Franklin was busy and just couldn’t make it there. Or because Franklin could have gotten a cold. When he got home from a series of meetings with Pepper and the board, (which needed far too much convincing about a really damn good idea), it was a relief to finally sit and read the letter. 

“Darling you don’t even know,” Tony whispered as he read Grant’s letter. He felt a lump form in his throat about the Northern Star comment. He’d always interpreted Cap’s True North comment to be about some unattainable goal, but this... He was his punk’s unofficial moral compass. He’d have to work on maintaining that.

He had a thing that fucked with time in his own lab, surely he could figure out something that could bring him through time. But Tony didn’t have all the pieces for that puzzle - yet. He needed to focus on what he can do, which is to write Grant back another letter. 

> **Sept. 1**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> Obie would hurt you. I have no doubt about it. You’re good for me, I want to be better around you. He benefitted from my ignorance. He benefitted when I drank and when my father drank. He probably hoped I would die as a child. But I am inevitably going to prove useless to him at some point. If he had some part in my parents’ death, and I was supposed to go with them, he was going to kill me and Jarvis too. And I can’t forgive that. 
> 
> Just need a minute to calm down.
> 
> And I like it more when things are mutual with partnerships, Sunshine. I’m yours too. In whatever shape or time you want that of me. Time is the biggest hurdle. Time and a responsibility I feel to try to bring Obie down. Is it bad I want it to be super publicly since I am that frustrated with him? 
> 
> Especially since he’s keeping me separated from my boyfriend, you know? 
> 
> I appreciate you being careful with the picture of Ana and Jarvis since it was from their anniversary. And you are damn distracting too. But we gotta focus on our tightrope walking. We can do this. 
> 
> Yours, Edward

Tony threw in a drawing of a tiger that managed to dig its claws into the ceiling of the enclosure. The tiger looked content chilling upside down. Pat had been sending him lots of tigers and big cat pictures, and it had all been great. 

\---

> **September 6, 1941**
> 
> My Eddie,
> 
> I trust you to protect me. And I mean it when I say I am willing to wait for you. You may have gathered this by now, but I am real stubborn about the things I really care for. That includes you, honey.
> 
> Yours. Mine. I want to yell it from the rooftops so all of Brooklyn knows I got a fella all my own. If I could, I would kiss you something fierce right now. It is what my boyfriend deserves. And I would make such love to you. Spend all night whispering in your ear all the sweet names I want to call you and listen to the sound of your heart. Kiss you until all your thoughts were of me and nothing else. Oh honey, just imagine how good it will be when we can finally have that.
> 
> I cannot feel my face I am smiling so hard right now.
> 
> -Grant
> 
> P.S. As promised, here is the photo back. It is beautiful. You can see in their eyes just how much they loved each other.

\---

> **Sept 10**
> 
> Grant. 
> 
> I’m trying not to make it that long for you to wait for me. Responsibility is a mean, mean thing and I’m trying to be responsible. I’m really stubborn too so we’re going to have to watch for that. I mean Obie isn’t young but he’s still sturdy and annoyingly healthy. 
> 
> I’m imagining that and you really are going all out on your vigilantism screaming from rooftops and everything sweetheart. I am so very happy to be kissed. That sounds amazing and believe me especially once I get your face right Sunshine I’m probably not going to think of much else. There is nothing much going on here but you in my head right now. It’s actually really great after the shit week I’ve had. I feel like I think way too much.
> 
> So how has your practice been going? I just hope you and Franklin don’t hurt each other too much by mistake practicing from the book. I still need to restock the ice in my deep freeze since I landed badly after a throw and needed an ice bath. My back was trying to murder me after that. 
> 
> Grant, I feel like you’d be the one to reach for me in your sleep and as long as you don’t dig any elbows into me I would like that. I can nap nearly anywhere though. I should probably sleep after I get this sent. Wonder if my dreams have a better image of you than I do when I’m awake. 
> 
> Still… I think you shouting from the rooftops is going to be my attempt at drawing you this week. I’ve also got some small technical bits I think a flying car would need too.
> 
> Yours, Edward
> 
>   
>    
> 

Tony doodled a fast bit of Grant shouting from the rooftops. And included his aircar traffic control designs and the different gauges on the cars and information you’d need to fly safely. He also doodled Grant getting a lift from Tony in a jetpack. 

—-

Steve outright giggled at the drawing. In response, he sketched a quick comic of Jarvis having a cup of tea poured by a robot. The man looked utterly unphased, even though the robot had a precarious grip on the teapot. On a whim, he added Edward peeking around the doorway, a bright grin on his face.

> **September 14, 1941**
> 
> Sweetheart,
> 
> Franklin and I have been making good use of the book! When he has a day off or works a short shift, we’ll practice in his room. The other day I managed to throw him over my shoulder. Can you believe that! We really appreciate that you included the stretching exercises, too. I know they have helped make sure we do not get hurt too bad. Of course, Franklin did accidentally give me a black eye the other day… we were going through the motions, just to get the form right, and he swung a bit too fast. I have not stopped ribbing him about it.
> 
> And Franklin can also confirm that I am an absolute octopus in my sleep. When we were kids, he would always wake up with me curled so tight around him he could not escape to go to the bathroom. Now that I am so much smaller than him, I tend to fall asleep on top of him in a subconscious desire to keep him pinned down. I can only imagine how many times worse it would be with you. Once I get my arms around you, I am not going to want to let go.
> 
> I also submitted my final sketch to the PWAP office. They said it looks real good and very American. Though I think one of them gave me a leery look for putting Rhodey in there. But I just stared him down. Because America is not just white folks. If anything, I want my next mural to be of a jazz scene, catching the way the community hums with a different energy. And maybe after that I can sneak in some of my fellow artists into a mural, remind the world that not everybody is fitting to marry a woman and have a bunch of kids.
> 
> You got any good plans for this week, honey?
> 
> -Grant
> 
> P.S. My ears are not that big.

\---

> **Sept 19**  
>  Grant, 
> 
> First off, I love your robot. Jarvis would adore a tea buddy and I love how you draw me. See you called me angel face with an expression like that?
> 
> Sounds like you had a good day with Franklin. God his ma must be wondering just what the hell is going on with you two. Especially with you having a black eye. 
> 
> I am probably going to love having a snooze with you. Just make sure to be careful with my nightmares. But having you around would be great. And I am going to either have a Grant backpack or a Grant shaped blanket apparently, great. Might help me sleep some normal hours or at least a better quality sleep.
> 
> Do you need any inspiration? Because I think there are some musicians heading your way that are amazing. All you have to do is ask. And you are going to make Rhodey’s year. 
> 
> Did you say to make your ears bigger? I kid. 
> 
> How about this? 
> 
> Also here are your flying car roadmaps. I had to figure buildings get bigger and taller sunshine.
> 
> They made stricter litter laws since pedestrians kept getting hit by junk. And yes that is Stark industries. The building was not my idea, I think it looks weird against the skyline.
> 
> But they wanted to park the cars higher up. Though the rest of it is actually architecture I really love. 
> 
> If this is something that is going to take ages to fix one of the first things I am going to do after I kiss you is sink my teeth into your ear punk. And then probably kiss you again.
> 
> Yours, 
> 
> Edward

\---

> **September 23, 1941**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> I never understood why people think angels have to be all demure and sweet. God always struck me as having a sense of humor. I mean, have you seen a platypus? I do not think someone without a sense of humor would make something like that. You would fit right in with a gaggle of pranksters who do good things. After all, you were the fella that sent me money so I could take my ma flowers after only a few months of knowing me. That was pretty angelic in my mind.
> 
> And maybe someday Jarvis can have a tea robot! I think I know a fella smart enough to build something like that. Course, he might complain about tea regulations and home traffic patterns… seems like the sort of thing he would do.
> 
> If you are hoping for normal sleep hours, though, I am probably going to disappoint you. I tend to sleep kind of fitful like. Where I go to bed fairly late, wake up early, then take another nap. If I lay down for too long, I start wheezing, and reclining at a high enough angle is hard on my back. Basically, it is a wonder my body manages to survive with all the way it tries to kill me on the regular.
> 
> Franklin’s ma is fine with us using his room for self-defense lessons on one condition. We have also been teaching his sisters, too. His ma figures they need to be able to lay a fella flat if he gets any kind of untoward ideas. Honestly, the eldest is better at fighting than Franklin or I. Kind of funny, honestly, watching a girl my size just make a complete fool of her brother. She and Maria would be quite the pair. Probably take over the world.
> 
> And I always need more inspiration for art. I love going to the record store and listening to things on the Victrola. But going to live performances is always a world of difference. You got any recommendations, sugar?
> 
> … I also do not know what to do with the mental image of you nibbling on my ear. Got me feeling hot under the collar. Almost enough to make me forget October is almost here.
> 
> Also, I have no idea how to be someone’s fella. The only dates I have been on have been doubling with Franklin. I want to do this right, but I have a feeling we are going to have to figure out what, if anything, we want to change between us. I do not even know how to write dirty letters; would not even know where to start. Just … figured I should warn you.
> 
> -Your (Tired) Artist

\---

> **Sept 29**  
>  Grant,
> 
> I have seen a platypus and that is one of the nicknames I have for Rhodey. He has way too many nicknames and I am probably going to have far more for you. Sometimes I wonder if whatever’s up there has a sick sense of humour sometimes. But well I’ve made it out of everything so far right? 
> 
> See I would totally make a tea bot for Jarvis, but he has it down to a science with timers for certain blends though his normal one he just adds milk and honey and just leaves the bag in. He inhales it. So you are right. And that is why the bots are downstairs or it would be chaos. 
> 
> I was just hoping for some kind of sleep honey.
> 
> I’ve told you about my nightmares so it isn’t the easiest thing to get me to sleep. So it sounds like we follow a pretty similar schedule. I might be able to figure out something that might make it easier for your back. But I think making it would still be a little rough on funds. Or not but I wouldn’t be able to send it to you properly. There are so many things I want to help with and invent ways to help you. It's frustrating I have to be here.
> 
> Sunshine, I am going to try to snap a picture of Maria’s face when I tell her you’re using her gift to also teach Franklin’s sisters how to kick ass. And yes they would. They would definitely take over the world and we would be better for it. It would be a much more efficient world with them running it. Probably nicer too. 
> 
> The Andrew Sisters are a dream if you haven’t seen them. I could sit and listen to a lot of their music. But trying to look at who’s going where is a little hard to keep track of sometimes. 
> 
> What would it take to make you forget October is coming? You are going to have outdoor work at least with the murals. But I still would like to help with good flowers again. Peonies, Hydrangea and…. Bells of Ireland, was it? So am I going to get another liquored up Grant letter? Or are you hiding the pens and paper sweetheart? 
> 
> The point is to enjoy it, Grant. The mental image of me nibbling at you. Kissing you until you don't want to stand up straight. I'd want to know you were enjoying yourself because I like knowing that 
> 
> And we are in unfamiliar water for me too, sweetheart. I’ve never dated anyone by letter. But I think we are on the right track with the movies and taking the time to share things. And in a way, we do nothing but talk like this. 
> 
> Grant if you want me to handle the more raunchy things I will be happy to help. But really I am much more for going at any pace you want to set. I have a decent imagination but we have time. It’s not a race. 
> 
> Your insomniac engineer
> 
> Edward


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of a count and October 16th.

> **October 3, 1941**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> You will not find me complaining about the number of nicknames you have for me. Honestly, I cannot wait to sit and tell Ma about you. That is one good thing about the sixteenth; I will get to sit and update her on everything that has been happening. I try to not go too often, just because it puts me in a mood for days after. But maybe this time it will be a better visit, since I will have good news. She would love you, I think. The way you are so vivacious and bright, I bet you would have immediately charmed her.
> 
> I am so impressed that you remembered which flowers I got her. Probably would get her the same bouquet; it was real pretty. And I am not sure you want another drunk Grant letter. He is an absolute mess, and I can only imagine what sort of things he would say. Maybe for the best that I just hide the pens, pencils, and papers that evening. Course, Franklin is trying to convince me to just not drink at all. Says I could go to a movie with him instead or basically anything else. Worries about me with how hard I go and how much of a mess I turn into.
> 
> And one day I feel like I need to have a cup of tea made by Jarvis. I get the feeling it is a completely different experience from the watery stuff I drink. In fact, I bet Jarvis would just about die if he saw the sort of stuff we drink. Is he British or something? Only people I have ever met that were that fussy about their tea were the Brits at February House; never seen anyone argue about a bunch of leaves like it was a matter of life and death.
> 
> Also… did you say bots? As in robots? You definitely have to tell me more about that. What do you mean you have robots? That is something you should have lead with sooner.
> 
> And hey, at least our sleep schedules match. If we do ever get to meet, we would be able to time our sleeping patterns pretty well. Maybe then you could try and invent me something, too. Honestly, I would enjoy watching you work in the lab. I bet you are something else when your genius is going hot. I could sit on the sofa, watching you, just drawing everything I see. Could decorate my walls just with sketches of you in your natural habitat. Best wallpaper a fella could have.
> 
> But honey, I would love to see the Andrew Sisters perform. The records I have heard from them are a delight. I have the feeling, though, that getting tickets to see them are near impossible. They are very popular.
> 
> I still cannot believe it has been five years since Ma died. Sometimes I blame myself, because she took the job at the hospital to pay for my medical bills. And the tuberculosis ward paid better than anywhere else. Franklin’s ma tries to remind me that Ma did it because she loved me so hard she would rather die than lose me. But I do not know how much comfort that actually is, you know? Just … I wish there had been a better way. Or that my father had been a better man, someone who could have helped her make ends meet. Maybe then she would still be alive.
> 
> It is getting easier, I think, to wake up each morning without her. I, uh, drew you another portrait of her. Pendragon helped me pick out the right shade of blue for her eyes and the flesh tones. Blues and reds are kind of hard for me to see? The doctor called it Protanopia, a type of colorblind where I struggle to see red light. Means a lot of things look blue or yellow to me, which is why I tend to do most of my work either in monochrome or in a very stylized way. Point in fact, I had a pair of outside eyes help me make sure the eyes were the right color. Apparently it is close to my eye color, though mine is more saturated.
> 
> I like being able to share things with you. Movies, books, even that time we both listened to the same record. It helps me feel close to you, even when I know we are thousands of miles apart. Maybe someday you can go to grab some dinner the same day I do, and you can write me about yours while I write you about mine. Maybe draw the places we eat, but with both of us there. Make a date of it. I know that is a lot of maybes, but I am mostly thinking on the fly. I am sure there are other things we could do ‘together’ from long distance. Like walks through the parks or going to museums of the same kind. Anything is good.
> 
> And I just… I guess I worry? Because I know you are a lot more experienced than I am. Only kisses I ever got were schoolyard dares, and I feel like that barely even counts for anything. Especially since they were from girls. I have seen fellas lose interest in a dame because they were not getting anywhere with her. I do not think you are that type of man, but it is hard to tell my nerves that. They are pretty unreasonable things, full of all kinds of wild ideas about what having a boyfriend is supposed to look like. I think, though, if I had my druthers… maybe we could take it slow. Figure out what our relationship feels like before we start adding more things into it. Because I feel like I have gotten to know Ed the Engineer and Edward the Posh, but I do not know much about what Eddie the Lover is like. I barely even know what Grant the Lover is like. But I sure want to find out.
> 
> Just yours,
> 
> -Grant

\---

Tony looked at the very rare full-colour portrait of someone who must be related to Grant. She was stunning, with gentle blue eyes and a sweet round face; she looked delicate, like a bird. But there was a fire in her eyes and something in the set of her mouth that bespoke a soul filled with fire and grit - a survivor. One thing Grant must have gotten was her hair. It looked like spun sunlight as it twisted into a neat bun at the nape of her neck - but the flyaways around her face reminded Tony so much of his punk. Untameable. 

He made a fast frame for it and put it among the other full pieces that Grant had sent him. 

"Your artist picks a hell of a bunch of interesting people for portraits," Rhodey gave a weird little smile as he looked at the latest picture he'd framed. Tony squinted a moment at both the portrait and Rhodey before patting his friend's shoulder. 

"Yeah, he does. Come on, let's get to work on the Ford." Tony grinned pulling himself away from the portrait and Rhodey. 

After a couple hours of elbow grease, Tony sat on the leather seats of the same Ford and wrote out his reply.

> **Oct. 8**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> Are you sure about that? I will get ridiculous. I will get weird. Something tells me you are going to tell me to bring it on. Maybe with a little twitch to your lip as you try to be serious. And I am going to be the opposite of serious. 
> 
> And then you get sweet. 
> 
> Ana would love you. She would pick you right out of a line up just, "This one. Of course, Edward would pick the most dramatic, fighty one of the bunch. That's all his life is!" I would look offended and called out, and she and Jarvis would make you tea. That said I wouldn't have you any other way. I hope your visit with your mom goes well.
> 
> And Franklin has a point there. You don't have to. My shitty coping does not have to be your shitty coping darling. Especially with booze.
> 
> Jarvis makes tea strong enough to slap me in the face. Even after he adds milk and honey it still smacks you like you took its lunch money. He is so British I'm sorry that it never came up. 
> 
> As for the robots, it’s because they are more like disaster children that forget what I tell them in seconds. They are more simple than what I imagine you think of robots. They run on the idea that if anything happens that they are programmed to do something with, they do the thing. If not, then they do nothing and wait for the thing. The concept is called ‘If-Then’ programming.
> 
> With Dum-e for example. If he 'sees' a letter, more accurately if he gets a letter placed on him. He then places it on a set pile, because it sets off one of his tasks. His name is Dum-e because he's usually the one I try to test command chains on first. 
> 
> After that there's Butterfingers and U. Butterfingers is to help me disassemble large machines and hold parts. And part of what it does is help stabilize them. U does that too and also holds anything I am using for documentation. Because Grant, the secret is: It's only science if you write your stuff down. 
> 
> You sure you're not a flirt? Because you are doing really well from where I am sitting. A wallpaper of your sketches of me. You are indulging me just fine. Also yes that would be very nice to do, just mumble little things before flopping onto the bed. 
> 
> I would love to share a ton of things too. I would love to see a lot of musicians. Do you dance at all? If not it's fine, I could teach you. 
> 
> Grant, do not blame yourself for your mother’s death. It is not your fault. Your ma did what any good mother does, which is to provide for her child as best she could. She would not want you to feel that kind of guilt about her death. I say that but I know that guilt is a sneaky feeling. I’m glad it’s getting easier.
> 
> Your mother was stunning and thank you so much for sharing your memory of her with me.
> 
> Grant, darling, I tend to think that past lives are bullshit. But what did you do???? With that said, on the fifteenth or sixteenth we can go for a meal. There’s The Apple Pan, or maybe the Pacific Dining Car that I’m thinking about going to. I could demolish a burger. 
> 
> The museums could be fun, could give you even more references for some fun art. More adventures for Sir Grant and Lord Kitt.
> 
> Well, one ex would tell you needy in regards to me as a lover. But I think that’s bullshit. Grant, I have been a bit hit and miss with gifts I’m working on trying to be more careful about them. Especially after the great gifts I had gotten from my friends these last couple of years. I get hung up in a relationship about what I think people get for gifts and what they want. And I get stupid. I kinda want to build Jarvis the Tea Bot anyway even if he’d hate it’s existence probably. But I do like gifting, making things of practical use and seeing people use them. 
> 
> We’ll learn. I have the hunch lover Grant is going to be affectionate and tactile. Especially with how your friendship with Franklin sounds with the practice and being an unofficial blanket. I’m looking forward to it. It doesn’t have to be anything raunchy just I think I would want to touch you a lot, just to feel you there? 
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Edward.

\---

When the sixteenth dawned, clear and cold, Steve felt the familiar ache in the fibres of his heart. But, the feeling was less overwhelming than usual. His grief had become a weight he was used to carrying, like a backpack of rocks he slung over his shoulder every day. And, in some small way, it felt like he was no longer carrying it alone. Buck and Eddie both helped steady the pain, dulling its impact on Steve’s wellbeing.

Getting dressed, Steve carefully combed down his hair and put on the new shirt and tie he had bought with the money from his second mural contract. Buck had assured him the shirt was a nice shade of blue that looked real nice on him, and the tie was a simple black. Nothing too fancy, except for the fact it was brand new. A part of Steve wondered what it would be like to own all new things; to know that you had months and months before you would have to start worrying about turning the seams or adding patches. He then slid on his boots – an excellent second-hand store find – before slinging on his old coat.

Bucky yet again met him on the landing, wearing his best suit and hair slicked to the nines. The sight of him made Steve smile. “Heaven only knows how your hair ain’t managed to slip off your head with all that grease you put in it,” the blond teased.

“What if Eddie slicked his hair like this?”

Steve made an exaggerated face. “I might have to reconsider writing him. Not sure I want to be seen with two greaseballs. One is bad enough.”

Flinging his arm around Steve’s neck, the brunet pretended to ruffle his hair. “If you ain’t careful, punk, I am going to tell Eddie you said that. Tell him you’d dump him just for havin’ grease in his hair.”

“A man has to have standards,” Steve protested. He slid out of Bucky’s grip using one of the tricks from Maria’s book and started down the steps with a bit of a spring in his gait. His body felt stronger now that he, Bucky, and the girls were studying from the book. It was a nice change of pace compared to how he usually felt that time of year. Maybe, if he were real lucky, he would be able to stay healthier.

The walk to the church passed as it usually did, though Bucky was pleased to note that Steve did not seem as broken as years before. It was a bad day, sure, but not nearly so awful as the previous years had been. Maybe, with enough time, the sting would soften further, and then Steve would simply use the time to remember his mother instead of so acutely mourn her. All through mass, Bucky looked around the chapel. He did not bother to try to keep up with the service – it was not his gig – but there was clearly something cathartic in it for Steve. After the service, the blond stayed on his knees, meditating or praying, for several long minutes. Then, slowly, he pushed up to his feet and offered his best friend a tight smile. “Ready to go get flowers?”

“Ready when you are.” Once Bucky was on his feet, the pair started out of the building and towards the florist.

Steve yet again selected a bouquet of bells of Ireland, hydrangea, and peonies. Though, he also got a much smaller bunch of hydrangea and forget-me-nots. These he carefully passed over to Bucky with instructions to not “muck it up” by squishing them. The pair then continued to the cemetery. At the gates, the brunet drew to a stop. “You want to talk to her alone? I can wait here, if you want.”

Hesitating, the artist considered the offer before nodding. “Yeah. I think I’ll be alright. Looks like there’s a bench right over there.” He nodded to where a nice memorial bench was tucked beneath the protection of a tree.

“I’ll see you when you’re done,” Buck said, still carefully cradling the small bunch of flowers as he walked over to the bench.

When Steve made it to his mother’s grave, he carefully knelt down and began to clear away the detritus with his long, fine fingers. “Hey Ma,” he murmured. “Brought you another bouquet. Thought it might brighten your day a little.” Sitting back on his heels, he cleared his throat. “I know you have probably been watching over me, so you already know everything that’s going on. But, I still wanna tell you about it. Feels a little more real that way, y’know?”

Fiddling with the flowers for a minute, he weighed his words. “Last time, I told you about the fella I was writing. Edward. We’re still writing. And Ma… he’s just the best thing. We had our misunderstandings over the last year, but we are working at communicating better. Figured you’d be proud of me for that. You always said it’s better to talk your problems out, and we’re tryin’. Because he means the world to me.” Steve licked his bottom lip. “I ain’t told Eddie this, but I love him, Ma. I think I could love him the rest of my life, however long that is. Finally understand what you mean about feeling like you gave your heart away. It’s like there’s a part of me that ain’t mine anymore. And it’s scary, because I know he could hurt me real bad. But it’s exciting, too, because he makes me stronger. He makes me so much happier.

“He is an absolutely ridiculous flirt. All sass and sunshine. You would love all the comics and doodles he sends me. They would make you laugh.” Leaning forward, Steve set the bouquet on her headstone. “And we go on dates, as best we can from a distance. Later this month we’re seeing  _ The Maltese Falcon _ together. I have the feeling you would’ve loved it; I know how you felt about noir films. And Ma… I know it ain’t exactly gospel for me to love him, but I like to think you would want me to be happy. However I could. So if you can, Ma, would you watch over Eddie for me? I think America will be going to war soon, and I’m scared for my fella. For him and Bucky and Arnie. So anything you can do to help them, I would sure be grateful.”

Kissing his fingertips, he brushed them over her name. “Love you, Ma. I’ll try to visit again soon. Gotta tell you about my murals and all that next time. I think if I’m here much longer, Buck will send a search party. Probably because we are going to dinner after this.” Steve slowly rose to his feet and brushed off his knees. “Bye, Ma.” He lingered a moment longer, staring down at her name, before turning and heading out of the cemetery. 

That evening, rather than getting drunk off his face, Steve spent his time drawing his mother. Whether it was from an old photo he had of Sarah holding her baby son or a memory he had of her gossiping with Winifred Barnes, his pencil seemed to overflow with images of the woman. Bucky stayed with him that night, as he always did, though this time they passed the hours by sharing stories. And it felt  _ right _ in a way that nothing had since Sarah’s death. When he woke up the next morning, Steve sat in the pale sunlight – blanket wrapped snug around his shoulders. A heavy book was balanced on his knees as a makeshift writing desk as he wrote.

> **October 17, 1941**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> You, get ridiculous and weird? Never would have guessed that was an option. Not with a dour fella like you. I am shocked and appalled to learn such a thing about you. However, will I survive the shame of it all?
> 
> In sincerity, I think a sense of humor is necessary to survive all the awfulness of life. As long as you did not make me laugh so hard I was unable to breathe, I would not mind you being ridiculous. Though, you are right that my lip does get awful twitchy when I am trying to keep it together. Franklin describes it as an earthquake just waiting to let loose. By which he means my absolutely ridiculous laughter and the way it shakes me.
> 
> I told Ma all about you. About us. I get the feeling she would approve of you. If only because you make her boy so happy. Truth be told, I would not put it past Ma to hunt down Ana and then aconspire together for our happiness. Seems like the sort of thing they would do. While I was getting flowers, I also got some extras. That is why you are getting a box rather than the usual envelope. Sorry it is so heavy. I figured if I put them in a flower press, by the time they got to you they would be dried out real nice. Even so, you might want to leave them in there for a few days after they make it to you. They are the same hydrangea as I took Ma, plus another flower that seems fitting for you and me.
> 
> I hope you like them.
> 
> And you never cease to floor me, honey. Robots. Actual robots. That follow commands! You sure must have one fine head on your shoulders to be able to invent such amazing things. You were not kidding when you said you were a futurist; it is because you are clearly living years ahead of the rest of us. Tell your robots hello for me. Give them pats. They sound a real peach, honestly. How on Earth did you come up with their names?
> 
> I am afraid I cannot dance. Never found the right partner to teach me. But, I have the feeling you would be able to help your fella out. Now I am imagining you holding me real close, swaying together as an Ella record plays. Gosh. I bet with how much manufacturing you do, you have real nice arms. Bet they would feel real good holding me while we danced. You might never be able to get rid of me, once I made myself at home in them.
> 
> As promised, I included my sketch of us at dinner from the other night. I took you to one of the little deli joints I like to go to sometimes. Nothing fancy, to be sure, but real filling and delicious. Got me a real thick sandwich with turkey and a cranberry sauce. And some fries, though I got a bit of a look for that combination. You would like the décor. They put pictures of the famous patrons on the wall and hang up all kinds of memorabilia. Was a bit of a pain to draw, but you are worth it. 
> 
> After dinner, I went for a walk in Central Park. You ever been there? I bet you have, given that you have lived in New York. But there is sure something special about it in the evening. How much quieter it is, and the way you can almost see the stars. While I was walking, I imagined you holding my hand and trying to sneak kisses. I would have let you, you know. Because you are right. I would love to feel you near me, in whatever way we could manage. During dinner I probably would not have been able to keep my feet completely on my side of the table, because I would want to be touching you the whole time.
> 
> And honest, you do not have to give me anything. Your time and attention are what really matter to me. But if you get stupid, I will try to not hold it too much against you. As long as it is something stupid good. Or stupid endearing. You are all the gift I need, honey.
> 
> -Grant

\---

> **Oct 22**
> 
> Grant, 
> 
> I have this urge to make a count for how many times I want to kiss you in the course of reading your letters. So far three because you being a sarcastic brat is making this shit-kicker of a day better. Obie was being creepy at Pepper. Rhodey is being called away. And Jarvis is fighting with his uncle. 
> 
> Your humour makes me thrive. 
> 
> And by ridiculous, I am fairly certain he means really fucking cute. Four times now by the way for my count. If you are any kind of ticklish I am going to be merciless, I will brave your elbows to make you laugh. 
> 
> I don't doubt your ma would hunt Ana down. My own mother would find her too. So this trio of amazing women shouting down things at us sounds encouraging and scary. I’m glad to see you writing beautifully and legible. As much fun Drunk Grant was, I’m glad you’re coping better this year. 
> 
> I am just waiting for that touch longer to be sure but my God you got me flowers. 6, 7 kisses now. Just might litter your face with them, that or go after your freckles. 
> 
> Dum-e, because he's become the practice dummy for my code. He is my first robot and I have had him for a long time now. They will get all of the pats from you then. Butterfingers because it has definitely slipped things and pinched me a few times. And U because that was Rhodey's decision.
> 
> Honey, you can touch my arms all day. And I would be glad to help you out. Swing, foxtrot, waltz - we will find your style. Just swaying in place sounds good to me, string bean. Where I went is The Apple Pan. It's a cute diner. Brought a pie home because Jarvis needs a break from baking now and then. His aunt is ill, and the family is struggling to get her belongings in order. So apple pie. I had a burger and fries as well. And pie for breakfast this morning. I imagine you'd steal my fries while I try to give you pie. Though depending on when I would think about sending you home with either pie and or ice cream. Load up a cooler with ice and it should make it home. I would totally play footsie with you.
> 
> I went driving around the cliffs after. There is nothing else like the view from them. I am thinking about going to the beach later, maybe hosting a bonfire sometime but that might not be for a week or two. I am trying not to become a hermit. Though you would not believe how many of my nightmares involve gunmen, honey. 
> 
> That was worth three kisses so we're at 10. Writing to you is a gift that keeps on giving. So are you a s' mores and marshmallow kind of guy or hot dogs and mustard over fire guy or both? Enquiring minds must know.
> 
> Yours, Edward

\---

> **October 18, 1941**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> I have the feeling you would also really enjoy Franklin’s game of seeing how much I blush when I get flustered. Of course, he does it by pissing me off. Between the two of you, I might just explode I would turn so red. And I swear, if you tickle me I will not hesitate to end your life. Franklin tried it once, and I broke his nose so bad both his eyes went black. I also may have kicked him someplace he considers very valuable, but I will deny it to this day.
> 
> But kissing… that is acceptable. I expect you to keep a complete tally so when we meet I get paid in full. Your honor as a businessman would be threatened if you welched on what you owed, just saying.
> 
> I am sure sorry to hear that you had a bad day, though. Glad I could help your day be even just a little better, baby. Maybe you should get a massage or something. Help you relax. I think that is what posh people do to relax, anyway. I will be honest, I am not entirely sure. It is what I would do if I were rich enough. Especially with all the painting I have been doing lately.
> 
> Speaking of! The diner mural is all finished. You would love it. Jarvis is behind the counter, judging me for trying to steal a bite of your pie; Ana is dancing with Franklin; Maria, Rhodey, and Pepper are sitting together; and, Pendragon is back at the jukebox with Mark. It turned out really well – all done in sepia tones. My next mural, the jazz scene, is going to be inside of a hotel. 
> 
> Thankfully, that means I should at least be out of the weather. Franklin was real relieved when I told him that. But can you imagine that? People walking into a fancy hotel, and the first real thing they see is my art on the wall. It feels like I am dreaming.
> 
> I also have another cover for Harper’s Bazaar coming out. The February edition this time, though. Honestly, I am surprised George asked me to do another one, but I guess he got the message I am not available or interested. Thank heavens. That or his team pushed for me to do another cover. This time I get to do something much more in my own style, which I am grateful for. I will just have to see what theme they want me to work with. It feels like I am finally getting my feet under me, as an artist. I am not exactly rich, but I am able to help Franklin’s family instead of just mooching off them.
> 
> I guess Ma, Ana, and your mother are doing their best to make sure I survive for you. We got the best guardian angels the world has to offer, I think.
> 
> And those names are precious. One of these days, you might have to send me photos of your robot children. Or drawings of them. They sound amazing. I can imagine ways a bot might prove helpful when doing my murals. You know, one to maybe get extra supplies or snag the brush I need. Or at least grab something if I drop it! I would be ashamed to admit just how often I end up doing that. Maybe I am the real butterfingers.
> 
> Dinner with you sounded sure nice. I can picture you enjoying that pie and filling up on fries. And you are right: I would steal fries from you so much. Pretty sure that it is mandatory I adore anything with potatoes since I am almost as Irish as a body gets. (As an American body gets, anyway.) Are you one of them weird fellas that puts cheddar on your pie? That is something I never understood. Ice cream on pie does sound amazing, though… seeing as dairy upsets my stomach, I might not be able to tell you myself.
> 
> And if you played footsie with me, I would be happy to learn any dance style you wanted to teach me. Just do not be surprised when I am a gangly mess. I have the feeling I would step all over your toes. Then where would we be, honey?
> 
> A bonfire sounds nice. But at this time of year? Or is California that much warmer than New York? I will be honest, I have almost no idea what it is like there, aside from what I see in the movies. And who knows how much of that is true. I also never had s’mores, so I have no idea if that is my style. But there is nothing like a good hotdog. When Franklin and I go to the baseball games, a good hotdog is something I always splurge on. If I am feeling real wicked, sometimes I even get two. I know, I am an absolute scandal. But, I hope your bonfire goes well. You deserve to have fun and live a little. That is what life is for.
> 
> Did the flowers survive alright?
> 
> -Your Grant

\---

"You look happier," Rhodes observed as Tony was taking pictures of the shore with the different cameras he'd amassed. Rhodey sat on the shore allowing Tony to snap a few pictures of him. 

"Yeah?" Tony asked before Rhodey extended his hand. Tony grinned and passed his friend the camera. He watched Rhodey look him over with a nod. Then snap a picture.

“Yeah, I can’t figure it out. It can’t be the models, you’ve dated around before. Getting Ty out of your life was a good start. But you seem like you’ve got something good going,” Rhodey glanced over at Maria and Pepper who seemed to be sharing Pepper’s tablet. Only for Maria to grin.

“It’s me,” She put her hand to her chest and gave a little proud grin. Kicking up one of her legs in a pose to show it off. “But actually have you heard him talk about  _ his  _ artist. When are you going to drag him out here so I can teach him myself?” Maria shot a determined look and put her hand on her hip. 

“I’m trying to get my artist here, Maria. So you just want us to keep turning the corn? And it’s twenty minutes for the sweet potatoes?” Tony asked, watching her nestle back against the lounger. 

“You got it,” Rhodey nodded and looked over at Tony who had decided to grab a couple of beer bottles. Tony in response sidled next to him and took over on the hot dogs passing Rhodey a beer

“What animal do you think Steve Rogers would be? Like you are definitely either a platypus or a honeybear." Tony asked as he finally cracked into his second beer. There was something of Steve Rogers in Grant. But as far as he knew, neither Steve or Bucky was anything but straight. But that was starting to feel like a feeble excuse.

"Hah. Easy." Rhodey smiled in full confidence as he opened his own beer.

"Well?" Tony stared, he had been struggling for weeks. Because he’d been trying to think of an animal nickname for Grant. And he shared enough traits with Steve that he could make it work. 

"He's a wolf, really all the Howling Commandos are. Loyal, family-oriented, smart." Rhodey listed off then nodded at Tony who he could tell was following the train of thought.

Tony considered the thoughts for a moment and added to Rhodeys answer "Work really well as a team and protect each other. Since Steve had lost his family he took on the Howlies."

"Also the Barnes family are all wolves too. God, they have some amazing eyes in that family. And again, loyal, protective. When they donate anything to museums they go through every aspect of the exhibit to make sure what they donate will be right. Chava is scary." Rhodey added turning the corn. 

“Never met her,” Tony mused as he set the finished hot dogs on the table. 

“Right, Jarvis kind of avoids the memorial events. You’ve never met any of The Barnes or much of anyone from the Howlies families,” Rhodey mused as he checked on one of the sweet potatoes. 

“Well Howard wasn’t exactly one now was he. He was just Howard Stark.” Tony muttered. “And Jarvis has some assholes in the family that treat him like shit because he’s adopted.” 

“They also treat him like shit because he adopted you. I’ve heard some of the group calls. Is he okay?” Rhodey asked, able to easily cut through the sweet potato with a fork. 

“Yeah,” Tony assembled his Hot dog while Pepper and Maria set up the rest of the food. "He is a member of the Carter family, blood relation or not."

The night went by in quiet conversation and some wine and beer. And Pepper woke up from a nap to start getting them into her car. 

On the drive up the cliff, he started writing his letter back to Grant. As Pepper and Maria filed into one of the guest rooms, Tony eventually sat on the arm of the couch to finish his draft.

> **Nov 2**
> 
> Grantcake,
> 
> The flowers survived just fine. Not sure what I’m going to do with the bricks but the flowers are very pretty. I think I have just the thing to store them in. I think you’re the first person to give me flowers for the sake of giving me flowers and I like it. So if we are keeping track then for the sake of my honour we are now at 12. Does it have to be paid all at once? Because I’m pretty sure at the rate this happens those numbers are going to add up fast. 
> 
> And I would love that game. I wonder how many ways I could get you to blush that Franklin just can’t. I would have way too much fun with that sunshine. And I guess that will be for you to find out then if I am ticklish. 
> 
> A massage is an idea; I’d give you one too if you wanted. I mean, those are a thing you are right about, it depends on the person for how they relax aside from that. I like building things to calm me down. A loaded bubble bath is great too. Have we figured out a tub solution that’ll work for you yet? Because you deserve a nice long hot bath too Grant.
> 
> Grant. That mural sounds amazing. If it’s anything like the painting you did of Franklin’s family it is going to wow so many damn people. Any idea which hotel? I’m curious. I might have stayed there. And yes I have been to Central Park, I forgot to mention that a letter or two ago. That zoo though. While I love seeing animals, I imagine better enclosure’s for the animals you know? Otherwise, they start looking like the one I have doodled before. It would look so stunning if they went all out and did enclosures that were something closer to where they were from you know? A place where tigers could swim and such. 
> 
> Grant congrats! Make the number a nice 15 for the count because I’d definitely throw in a bunch of little kisses. I’m looking forward to it! I will let you know when I see it. That said I am fairly certain Franklin’s parents don’t see it that way, especially since when you can work you are busting your ass. You are not a mooch.
> 
> The bots are more not human-looking than the ones I have doodled for you. We are both familiar in a way with how damn hard it is to articulate that many digits and limbs you know? I can do a quick doodle. I should probably take off the ribbon from last year's gift from Pepper. But I think Rhodey’s added the one from his gift and I can’t do it. Darling I know you’re not the real Butterfingers. I have broken toes while testing him. I’ll just wear steel-toed shoes while dancing with you like I should have been with Butterfingers. It’ll be fine.
> 
> Grant, I was so full. I was barely able to walk out. And it’s colder than usual this year hence the bonfire. I’ve got spare blankets and coats so everyone should be fine. Besides it’s not that cold. With my group, I’d either end up leeching heat off of Rhodey or I’d probably hold onto you. I like both hot dogs and s’ mores. Better question: how dark do you like your marshmallows? 
> 
> That said I lied, give me everything on a hot dog, a heart attack on a bun if I’m getting it at a ballgame. But if it’s a camping one whatever’s there you know? 
> 
> Dinner with you sounds damn good by the way. I am having some of that sandwich just so you know. It sounds like Thanksgiving leftovers and I want it. I had meant to say that before I was just a bit tired from my day. Next chance you get, do me a favour and pile on some blankets and take a good nap for me, would you? Or at least send some napping feelings my way or something. 
> 
> Sir Grant I think has beaten me to the punch in this drawing, because he’s napping. I just realized how many things I must have sent you. Especially since Pendragon’s gift. I hope you are finding room for them. 
> 
> Imagine napping near the ocean with me, wrapped up in blankets while Rhodey and Maria made sure no one got too close. That would be nice. Sleep well when you do Grant.
> 
> Yours, Edward.

The next day Jarvis and Maria went jogging to warm up. Rhodey got him warmed up instead to change things up, and he was not going to complain about jogging again. Maria lead them through a group session that Tony made sure to pay Maria extra for. 

After some work Tony fell asleep accidentally mid theory reading on time travel. He had rewrote the letter for Grant with a lot of small doodles. With another page of Sir Grant sitting on the ground holding his helmet while laying back against his horse. It was still an attempt at Grant of course but the angle was odd. He focused more on Dum-e this time. Then doodled the other bots as well. 

He had time.

\---

> **November 10, 1941**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> I told Franklin that you called me Grantcake. His response was to laugh and say ‘a pound cake maybe.’ I may have gotten real mean with him during our sparring in retribution. But I maintain that he absolutely deserved it.
> 
> And you never got flowers just for the sake of it from anybody? That is a real shame, with a fine fella like you. But I am glad I could do something special for you. My ma was obsessed with what flowers meant and the sort of messages you could convey with them. I am not as good at that sort of thing as she was, but I like that sort of thought. The idea that you can tell someone your feelings without having to try to find the words.
> 
> I also have no doubt you would be able to make me blush a hundred ways Franklin cannot. After all, he missed out on his chance of getting to sweet talk me and kiss me. Did I ever tell you he was the first fella I crushed on? The look on his face when I told him… We went through a real rough patch after that, because he did not know what to do with my feelings. Thankfully, I grew out of them. And thankfully he realized that me liking fellas just did not matter to our friendship.
> 
> Franklin and I did figure out how to insulate my bathtub. So at least when I get hot water in there, it does stay warm long enough to be a decent bath. It is a definite improvement. Thank you so much, sweetheart, for the suggestion. But a massage from you… Well, I am blushing at just the thought of your hands running over my back and shoulders. Figured you would enjoy knowing it is that easy to make me blush. I blame my Irish skin; it does not keep secrets of any kind.
> 
> The hotel assignment only just came in the other day: the Carlyle. When I went to speak with the owner about the site and bring along some sketches, he was absolutely delighted by my work. Decided he wanted something even bigger than planned! They have this real swell bar in the hotel, and he has asked that I paint a mural that wraps around the entire room. Can you believe that! I will probably be working on that one for the next two or three months, at the very least. Maybe more. He said he is going to give me extra time to sketch a bigger concept. I might have to convince Franklin to go with me to some of the jazz clubs, so I can get a better idea of how to fill that much space.
> 
> And you are right about the zoo. Animals deserve places where they can roam and enjoy themselves. I imagine it is a bit like the tenements, for the animals in the zoo. It is easy to feel like you are suffocating because there is never any room to breathe. And it is so easy to feel trapped… It is why I would move to the country if there was any way to make it happen. Sometimes I feel like I cannot even think, everything is so tight.
> 
> And your bots! I love them so much. The way Dum-E is flaunting those ribbons absolutely sends me. And Butterfingers! What a baby. I think U is jealous and needs some decoration too. Just look at that sad little arm, all unloved and undecorated. If I were there, I would paint something on him just to dress him up. A nice design along one of the struts or something. (Franklin told me that was what they were called. Bless him.)
> 
> Though … his sister, Rina, overheard me and him talking. About you. She was coming over with bread for me, and I guess we did not notice the door opening. I was terrified that she would out me or worse to her family. All she did was look at the comics and photos hanging on the wall, then ask me to tell her about you. So, I did. After Franklin left for work, she suggested I give something a try that her friends do when they are writing a fella they are sweet on. I hope you do not think it is too weird, but when she explained the sentiment… Well. I wanted to try it. Even if I was real nervous.
> 
> You see, when I finish your letters sometimes I will kiss them, just to pass along my affection for you. But never like this. I mean, it is just a silly thing I do. Rina said I could help your sketches this way, since you would know the shape of my lips, plus… I dunno. If you hold it up to your cheek, it is like I am kissing you from so far away. Sorry about the color; Rina likes burgundy lipstick too much, I think. It was that or a shade of pink we were worried might not show up on the paper. So, this letter has been sealed with a kiss. Now I get to figure out how to get the lipstick off my face before heading back to Franklin’s for dinner. Starting to get cold enough that I will be bunking with him again.
> 
> And you give me the best dreams, honey. Imagining you and me at the ocean. Imagining us napping together in my bed. Perfection. I may have even dreamed of standing on the balcony of some posh building, kissing each other with the city sparkling below us. I have the feeling I would not need fireworks on my birthday if I had you in my arms.
> 
> -Your Grant

\---

Tony’s backlog of upgrades and plans for after Obie was gone was starting to be headache-inducing. His updates to the updates he wanted to introduce were becoming to the point where he was starting to come up with new programs. But the market probably wasn’t ready for it yet. Tony could feel the dull throb start behind his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. He then shifted his shoulders before looking over at where Dum-e had placed the envelope from Grant. 

And that was not even counting his attempts at cracking time travel. He had time still to figure it out, he was sure. And modern medicine would do wonders for Grant. But he wasn’t going to coerce Grant with that. That said, he should go read that letter. He’d left it hanging long enough. 

Tony plucked it from the small bin and looked at the lone letter still sitting in the basket, which had been there since before breaking things off with Ty. Tony sniffed, reaching for it before pulling back. That was before he’d hurt Grant, and while they’d been able to move past it Tony hadn’t been quite ready to open it. Tony hadn’t quite forgiven himself for that yet. Tony left the old letter in there, turning to stretch out on the couch with the most current letter. 

And there was a burgundy lipstick kiss on the paper. Tony stared at it, blinked a few times then looked closer then pulled it back. Yeah, that was a real lipstick kiss. The colour probably would look good on Grant but well, it showed a sign he wasn’t afraid of lipstick. Interesting. Tony just fought back the urge to scan through the letter and see just what was up with that, save the surprise for later.

Tony stared a moment ahead after he read the letter and nearly dove for his notepad to write a reply. 

> **Nov 18**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> That is entirely up to you. This is not me calling you this, but at least it wasn’t shortcake. You’d have beat the tar out of him, sweetheart; I’d have felt it from here. Now I want strawberries, though. Because strawberry shortcake is nice. 
> 
> And no. I suppose I’ve never seemed like the type of person who’d ask for flowers? I mean I have gotten some as part of an award but never asked. I like it. And I have a friend who is knowledgeable about that sort of thing too. And I am very flattered, sweetheart, and glad about that message. Bring it up to 25 for the kiss count, from wherever I was. See now I am wondering, what flowers do you like for the sake of flowers and nothing about meaning? I mean I am fond of amaryllis, but uh the story with that flower is not a happy ending. Something about growing a unique flower from the blood of her own heart upon the advice of a really fucking high woman. Aka, the Oracle of Delphi. I mean the guy really did love flowers and she wanted to give him something unique. But, I mean hybridizing flowers can’t be that hard? 
> 
> Grant, my point is to ask your favourite flower that you think is super pretty. It doesn’t have to mean anything unique or anything. 
> 
> And no you did not tell me about that! I don’t blame you. Franklin is very handsome. Is your type dark-haired men with expressive eyes? I think that’s your type Grant. Cary fits that type very well. Me too. I am totally throwing a wink at you from California. If you felt a randomly good feeling from nowhere, that would be me. Blame me for that. I am kidding, but I would wink at you for that. I never got that with my first crush because well, by that point he was long dead in the ocean. I dated around a fair bit. I’m glad you were able to move on and forward from that as friends. With Franklin.
> 
> And good about the tub! You deserve to feel clean. I would dry you off and use some lotion or something and just give you a hell of a back rub definitely. You probably have knots in your back harder than steel. And you have some freckles on your back that I would like to draw shapes in between. 
> 
> You’re doing the bar at the Carlyle. Oh my god. When I get there, I am going to see your art and you with any kind of luck. I’m saying when because ‘if’ isn’t a firm quantifier and makes me think I’ll fuck it up somehow. I will see you. Have fun with Franklin when you go bar crawling. 
> 
> I am feeling pretty caged too. I get so mad and frustrated about this, Grant. If it weren't for a few facts; like how murder is strongly frowned upon most places and how I would definitely go to jail. And I can't do any of my work from prison. I sometimes wish I could just get rid of Obie. But I have to be sure. I have to do this legally and make sure anyone complicit in his activities gets booted too.
> 
> I mean I could make it look like an accident, but we don't want to walk that path honey.
> 
> The bots are going to love you. They are going to end up responding better to you than me, even with your fresh from Brooklyn accent. And the Garage will become a science fiction Abbott and Costello flick. 
> 
> Grant, I was seconds from desperately scanning the letter just to see what the kiss was about. My eyes were drawn to it right away. Like very eye-catching. The color must look interesting on you. But definitely drew my eye on the page. I don't think it would give me much of a clue to the shape of your mouth. But I appreciate the thought. Suddenly the count has spiked to forty. 
> 
> I don't usually kiss the letters, but I have bought a bottle of that cologne Franklin bought you. I imagine it smells better on you than just a pillow. I bought it a while ago, to be honest. I wish it didn't bother your lungs. 
> 
> Rina is a sweetheart, and she needs flowers from someone now. Because getting them did feel nice.
> 
> Also hey if I kiss the mark does it mean I kissed you sunshine? Probably not. But Grant, know I want to kiss you a lot. Probably more than 40 kisses.
> 
> One of my places has a balcony we should definitely --
> 
> Grant, this is the life model decoy of Edward Kitt writing now, you have succeeded where Obie failed. He is currently on the floor and still twitching. Send another kiss with the pink if you wish him to be revived. Edward would also like it noted he wanted to bring the total to sixty and would be very happy to be in your arms. 
> 
> He would also like to have it known that he is hoping to see Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde soon since it is a good season to see horror movies. 
> 
> And he will live. Hopefully. 
> 
> He is also shouting something about 
> 
> "Yours make sure it says yours."
> 
> Edward.
> 
> Ps. You might not need them but I still want to see them. I like fireworks a lot.

Tony chuckled before he sealed the letter with a sketch he had made of Grant as the Green Hornet. He really did look good in the mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has come to my attention that in the MCU the 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster we see a picture of Howard Stark and a Tiny Tony working on belonged to his father. As a reminder the one Tony is working on with Rhodey was Purchased in an auction. Howard had one but for his own reasons, Edward Stark sold it if he did. "Because it reminded him of people he could never live up to."


	19. The Lovers Are Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December sucks.

> **November 28, 1941**
> 
> Sweetheart,
> 
> If anyone called me shortcake, I would not hesitate to drop them to the ground. No matter how big they are. But strawberry shortcake sounds like it could be delicious. One summer a couple years ago, Franklin’s dad brought home some fresh strawberries, and his ma made them into this strawberries and cream concoction. One of the best things I ever tasted. The strawberries tasted so bright – like summer in my mouth. Most of the time I tend to get apples if I get fruit. Berries are a bit of a splurge.
> 
> Has anyone ever told you that your rambling is cute? Because I love it so much. Just the way I can see your mind move through your thoughts at sixty miles a minute sends me. Makes me think listening to you talk must be a bit like watching you play tennis against yourself. I bet I could listen to you go for hours and hours. Baby, your mind is beautiful. Wild, but beautiful.
> 
> And my favorite flower – meanings aside – is a dahlia. I saw them at the florist when I was getting the bouquet for Ma, and I thought it was so amazing how that many petals fit together. And the number of colors they come in! I could walk in a garden full of them and never get bored. Just might have to be careful of my hayfever.
> 
> Amaryllis are real pretty, too. The way they crane up so tall and proud. I can see why you would gravitate towards it. Maybe you should get one for your garage or something. Add a little extra life to your space.
> 
> Franklin is kind of horrified I told you about my crushing on him. He thinks nobody should know about that, since he never was my fella. But I do not see why you should not know about my awkward past crushes, especially as they went literal nowhere. I definitely do tend to like brunets with expressive eyes, but especially if they are mindbogglingly charming. Reasons why I never crushed on Pendragon: he is a ginger. Redheads do nothing for me. But I did wonder what that random tingle of warmth I felt the other day was. Glad to know it was you and not a fever trying to creep in.
> 
> Also, if you do not get your hands on my back when we meet, I will be disappointed. You talk about massages and lotion and all kinds of things that just sound so nice. Honey, you can put your hands on me all you want. Just be careful of my spine.
> 
> We are going to see each other, Eddie. Destiny brought us together. Why would she not make sure we met? After all, think of the odds. My letters reaching you, and your letters reaching me. Somehow our interests and personalities lining up. I think there is something special here, something beyond just us. So, of course we are going to meet – one way or another. Promise.
> 
> Also… I am glad that murder is not an option? Like, I joke about it, but murder is definitely not the best route in your situation. Or most situations. I would make a terrible prison wife.
> 
> Since you were not able to learn much about the shape of my lips, I will give you feedback on your most recent sketch. You have my ears, nose, and eyes right. The brows just need to be a bit less arched; I tend to look more concerned or pensive than angry. And just thin out my face a bit. Make it a bit longer. My lips are not particularly full; the top lip almost does not exist, and my bottom lip is wider than the top. If that makes any sense at all?
> 
> It is real sweet of you to buy the cologne and spray it on your pillows. Does it make it feel like I am a little closer? Maybe you just need to heat a pillow of grain and then spray the cologne on it. That should help it seem more like a body, especially with how often I run a fever.
> 
> But I suppose you will have to kiss the lip print for survival. I did not exactly use Rina’s lipstick; I may have grabbed one from the department store that suited me better. I will be honest that I am not exactly sure what shade it is. The woman at the counter said it would suit my mother, based on my description. But since I cannot see reds and pinks, I just had to trust her. Figured I might as well use my own rather than steal from Rina, especially if you actually like these kisses. I might do more of them, if you want.
> 
> And I hope you survived, honey. Your life model decoy is not nearly as beloved as the actual Edward is. Just so you know. Maybe we can see Jekyll eight days from today? The letter should reach you by then, yeah?
> 
> Miss you, honey.
> 
> -Your Grant

\--

No. No. No. No. No. NO. Tony’s brain was screaming all of the no’s to the tune of “Bohemian Rhapsody” as he sat at his table looking at the drawing. He felt his heart sink even as he read the description. Part of the reason his hands had found drawing Grant so difficult was they kept coming out like Steve Rogers. And there he was. Not only did he fall for a man in the 40’s, he fell for someone he couldn’t pull out of that time. Shit.  _ Shit. _ There was no time. There was no time he could save him. 

Tony pushed his stool back letting it roll himself away from the drawing. Tony stood up counting his steps and pacing the lab. He couldn’t do anything about this. Steve fucking  _ Grant  _ Rogers. God, he was in fucking sync with Captain America. He was long-distance dating Steve Rogers. He didn’t need to worry about tinkering around with colour correcting lenses anymore. Erksine fixed it. The allergies, asthma, his circulation, the serum fixed them all. His spitfire would have lived. Tony couldn’t stop his hands fidgeting. He rubbed at his face, tugged at his own hair; he couldn’t do anything, but he needed to do something. 

Tony was about 60% sure he started hyperventilating as he paced. The information from the museum narration was on a loop in his mind, echoing in his head as he paced:  _ Went down with the Valkyrie in 1945 saving countless lives. _ He looked over at the tidily organized box and letters for Dum-e to put in the mailbox while he was going to be out of commission. There were scarves to go with the mittens he’d gotten the guys last year. Tony had chuckled while getting the scarves because piece by piece he was going to pull Grant together a warm winter look. He’d wrote the  _ Jekyll and Hyde _ response because he’d loved that story. Everything was set.

And it wasn’t going to work.

Tony looked at his wall of plans and brainstorming. He looked at the wall of art that had been drawn for him. The damn Ford and the darkroom. His garage, his sanctuary, had become the home of a ghost. A ghost he’d been imagining would keep him company. Tony stumbled up the stairs, ending up on all fours outside the doorway. He started wheezing and choking back what were certainly not sobs. He couldn’t ever do the thousand little things he had thought about. 

There was never going to be an outlet strong enough for every single thing he felt. He needed to not feel.

Tony slowly stood and stumbled his way to the liquor cabinet. He’d ignored it for months as he’d spent time with Maria, with Demi and the other Maxim models. And then there had been the dates with Grant. Steve. His long-distance dates with Steve Rogers. Tony laughed hysterically, glad Jarvis was out with a few friends. He stumbled to his room holding his liquor as he sat on the floor. He just wanted to sleep.

\--

It’s during this haze, on the 9th day, Tony overheard an awful exchange. Just as he was nearing the start of Hell Week.

“It’s been over a week since he’s produced anything. Just what the hell is going on?” Tony heard growled from far away. 

“He is not feeling well, and his value, Obadiah, is not based on how well he produces or makes weapons for his company,” Jarvis said firmly as Tony used Friday to check the feed. 

“His value is too based on that. It is literally his job, Edwin. And he’s overreacting, as usual. It’s just a hangover from his shit week or whatever he calls it. Nothing more than a hissy fit.” Obadiah said dismissively. “He should be working.”

“And I am demanding you leave. Do not come around here while I live in this house or I will use more forceful means to make you leave,” Jarvis said firmly, holding a serving tray in his hands. 

\---

Steve and Bucky were sitting in the living room on a peaceful Sunday afternoon, limbs akimbo, just listening to the radio. The brunet was working on the crossword from the paper while the artist sketched along with the story crackling through the speakers. Becca and Dinah were pinning a dress on Chava, while Winifred worked on dinner in the kitchen. George was still out running deliveries for the butcher he worked for, but he would be home soon enough.

And then radio cut out.

“We interrupt this program to bring you a special broadcast. Mere moments ago, the Japanese Empire declared war on our beloved nation and launched a sneak sky and sea raid on Pearl Harbor. The mid-Pacific naval bastion at Pearl Harbor has suffered heavy losses, as Japanese bombers and submarines dealt treacherous damage to our unsuspecting servicemen. Reports are still coming in as to how many ships have been hit and how many dead –“

Everyone fell still.

Somehow it did not feel real, hearing the words spilling out of the radio. Sure, on the surface the words made sense. America had been attacked by the Japanese. Countless servicemen had given their lives, trying to defend the country from a terrible attack. Japan had declared war.

But it did not feel real.

The words were not registering in Steve’s mind.

And then he had a terrible thought: Rhodey. Rhodey had recently been called away on military business. What if he had been at Pearl Harbor and Tony had just lost his best friend? Darting to his feet, Steve ran out of the apartment and down the hall to his ramshackle abode. He nearly tripped over the loose board in the kitchen as he darted towards where his stack of paper sat atop his dresser. Snagging a sheet and the first pen he could find, he quickly scribbled out a message to Edward:

> Eddie Honey,
> 
> Are you alright? I just heard the news on the radio about Pearl Harbor. I know you ain’t there – you’re in California. But that’s too close. Honey, please tell me you’re okay. God above, why don’t I have a better way to reach you? I am shaking I am so scared for you. And Rhodey! Please, honey. Tell me he’s okay. I know you said he was pulled away on military business, and I am just so terrified they sent him to the Harbor.
> 
> I don’t even know what to think or feel. I am just … so scared. Please be okay. Please be alive.
> 
> I love you. I need you.
> 
> -Grant

Trembling from head to toe, he stuffed it into an envelope and scrawled the address on the front. He then stumbled out the door – completely forgetting his coat – and ran, tears streaming down his face, to the mailbox. Dropping the envelope inside, he pressed his forehead against the biting cold of the metal. “Please be safe. Please be safe. Please be safe.” Gasping, he stumbled back a few steps and dug into his pocket for the little inhaler Edward had sent him. He tried to steady his breathing enough to take a deep puff of the medicine even as his chest constricted and his vision blurred. If not for the ringing in his ears, he might have heard the mailbox gently clang.

\---

Tony read the letter momentarily in a daze and went over the date before it clicked.

Pearl Harbor. He’d come out of the haze just in time for Fucking Pearl Harbor. 

> Grant. 
> 
> Grant. Grant, please for the love of God, Grant. Rhodey is okay. He is fine. He was nowhere near Hawaii. I appreciate so much that you thought of him and me. I promise he is okay. He is okay and going to remain okay. I thought it strange you sent your letter so quickly but honey. Rhodey is fine.
> 
> Grant. You’ve got me. This is the closest I can be to you for right now. I want more so damn much. I want more so I can pull you close and tell you as you’re wrapped up in my arms. That I’m here. I am alive. That you are one of the most single-handedly one of the most amazing men I have ever known. Grant, you are so good. Remember you are brave. You are so loyal. You are so clever, Grant. Just please be okay for today, sunshine. I hope to god you didn’t run for the mailbox, but I know you, sweetheart. I know you did. Please breathe. Please use your inhaler for the love of God or whatever deity is watching for us. If not that, use it for me, Grant. Don’t Die Now. 
> 
> Please. Not when I am pretty sure I’m feeling similar. I’m sorry I’m not more sure 
> 
> Grant. Please. I’ve got you. Stay with me.
> 
> Yours, Edward 

\--

When Bucky found Steve, panting in the alleyway, he carefully drew the blond into his arms. He pressed Steve’s good ear to his chest and focused on taking loud, deep breaths. “Breathe with me, punk. In, and now out.” Slowly, Steve’s breathing began to steady as Bucky and the medicine combined to help ease the burning in his lungs. “That’s it. Just in and out. Listen to my breathing and match it.”

Several long, long minutes later, Steve finally pulled back his head to look at the brunet. “Thanks,” he croaked.

“Somebody has’ta make sure you stay alive,” Bucky tried to quip. “You feelin’ any better?”

Steve shrugged. “Define better.” He buried his face against the solid wall of Bucky’s muscles once more. “I’m terrified, Buck. Terrified of the war. That I am going to lose you and Eddie and Arnie to it. That Eddie’s friend might’ve been at Pearl Harbor.” His fingers tightened their grip on Bucky’s coat, digging into his sides. “We won’t be able to watch each other’s backs if you go, Buck. Y’know they’d never take me.”

Stealing a glance towards the cloudy sky, Bucky tried to blink back his own tears. Right now his Stevie needed more from him. “I know, kid. I know. But you can help me study more from that fine book of yours. And we can help Arnie learn some too. That’ll help us stay safer if we do end up serving.” Tucking his head against Steve’s hair, he sighed. “I promise, Stevie. I am going to do everything I can to stay safe. And I know Eddie will too. That man would move heaven and earth for ya.”

Steve gave a weak, tired laugh. “I told him… that I love ‘im. Because I am just so scared of losing him. I wasn’t going to tell him for a long time yet because I know he ain’t ready. But I thought… What if he does die before I get the chance to tell him? And that was worse than any other scenario my head could crack up with.”

Bucky hugged Steve just a little tighter. “I’m sure he loves you too. Even if you’re an awful lot of trouble. He just might not know how to say it back.” The mailbox gave a little clang, drawing Bucky’s gaze to it. “Why don’t you head out of the alley, and I’ll meet you around the corner? It would look just a little strange if we both came out the same time.”

Steve nodded and pulled back. “Alright.” When Bucky noticed the blond shivering, he slipped off his coat and bundled it around his thin body. “Thanks. For everything.”

Once the artist had trundled out of the alleyway, Bucky opened the mailbox and found the letter inside. Grabbing a pencil and a pad of paper he’d taken carrying in his pocket, he wrote a quick note to Edward:

> Ed,
> 
> I’ll keep an eye on St- Grant. Remind me to give him grief for this fake name stuff. And get him your letter in a couple of days. Punk ran himself down to the mailbox to check on you, but at least he was smart enough to have that medicine you sent with him. Stay safe.
> 
> -F

He dropped the note into the mailbox and turned to find his poor, sweet friend. The letter was carefully hidden in his pocket, waiting for when a reasonable amount of time would have passed for it to be received.

An agonizing five days later, Bucky finally handed the letter over to Steve. It was probably just a little too early, but the way the blond was fretting himself had him worried. The fact Steve could barely eat or sleep was a testament to just how completely Edward had won his heart. And the pure joy on the blond’s face when he caught sight of the letter was near enough to break Bucky. He wanted, so desperately, to tell Steve about the mailbox and how immediately he could write to his beloved. But, he knew that Steve was so fragile, between the declaration of war and worrying about Edward’s health, that telling him would be unwise. It might finally be what shattered him. So, he held the secret, hoping he would eventually find the right time to tell the blond.

When Steve sat down with the letter, he all but tore into the envelope and quickly scanned the first lines as best he could. Rhodey was safe. Edward was safe. They were okay. A choked sob slipped past Steve’s lips as he crushed the letter to his chest. They were alright – for the moment. He was overcome with gratitude and relief so profound it made his head swim. It was impossible to process anything beyond that moment and the litany of “they’re safe, they’re safe, they’re safe” running through his head. And once his breathing had steadied, Steve read on. Tears continued to pour down his cheeks as he read the words of affection Edward had poured onto the page. His Eddie. His.

The man who might just love Steve in return.

A surprised laugh started past his lips at the sight of those lovely, beautiful words. Eddie was probably feeling the same way. In a time of such uncertainty and grief, those wonderful words were like a peaceful spring morning coming unexpectedly after a hard winter. Steve barely knew what to think or feel, let alone say, in return.

\--

Tony stared in the mirror holding a razor having not written anything to Steve for three weeks. The prewritten ones dwindled down and Steve’s replies had piled in the basket. He glared at his reflection a moment “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered before finally taking the time to trim and shave. 

Going down the steps to his garage and turning on the lights, he nearly turned right back around to flee up the stairs. But no, he had to stop running from the truth. It wouldn’t change things - wouldn’t make the situation any less real. In his desperation, he’d watched far too many archival videos, and the conclusion he made was this: He wanted Steve happy. Whether the blond was going to live for three more years or, because of something messing up, Steve died sooner. Who knew. But Steve deserved every ounce of joy Tony could scrounge together for him. He and Bucky both. 

An idea struck him as he turned on a playlist Friday had made of music he’d hoped to talk to Grant about. Ella Fitzgerald.

He’d amassed enough assorted coins and bills from the proper time to give Steve options. He bit his lip as he dove into reading about the singer and where she had performed in 1942. Steve and Bucky could both see her perform live. And then Tony found the perfect opportunity: He found a recording of one of Ella’s last Harlem concerts with her Orchestra before they broke up. Steve and Bucky would be able to enjoy her in all her glory, and Tony … Tony would be able to watch it too. He got the prices for tickets, everything as best he could, and compiled instructions for Steve to go in the envelope with the money. Still sitting at his desk, he hovered over the video before pulling back. Tony wanted to watch it with his boyfriend.

> **Dec. 29**
> 
> Grant.
> 
> Do you want to hear what I think an Angel sounds like? I have some very specific requests to make of you and some funds for you to get a ticket. Of course, I can’t get tickets for you from here. But I am seeing this angel while she’s in Los Angeles. But I think she is heading your way. I’ll have my letter about that ready, but I want to read your reactions to it first. 
> 
> And Darling, you are stunning. I am also including enough for a meal. I’m going to have supper in the Pacific Train Car the night you go. If you get to California and have a chance to go there, go. The steak is so good. And they have good potato souffle too. And just good potatoes in general. Have I convinced you yet, sweetheart? I’ll draw the place out for you. And do not worry about the dress code. You will be fine. The night you’ll see her. I’ll probably go driving after my food. If you want to see a hell of an amazing sky I’d take you to the Joshua Tree National Park. After that I would probably set up the projector in the garage, and we could watch movies. Bringing up Baby and all the fun Cary Grant ones. Until we finally end up falling asleep. I’d love a night like that. 
> 
> It’s been a hard couple of weeks between everything. I haven’t felt well, and I think this bout has me falling into Obie’s useless books. I’ll see if a few of my other projects have him feeling better soon. Jericho is my best one, so hopefully I’ll save that for last. I think. I miss you. 
> 
> Enjoy the show sunshine.
> 
> Yours, Edward.

Tony sketched Steve in the seat across from him. He could picture Steve talking animatedly about the show, about how much inspiration there was for his mural. Enough funds for what he promised as well. Tony sent it and sprawled out onto the couch. “Friday, can we make a reservation for the Dining Car? Yeah, for that day; thank you Friday.” Tony answered as Friday pulled up the calendar to show which day. He’d been there enough he knew the interior very well and set the picture aside. 

Tony fell asleep on the couch shortly after. 

-

Steve had been desperately worried about Edward. After their rather emotional exchange, things had distanced back to the sort of letters they had written more towards the beginning of their communications. But, it made sense, on some level. It was a terrible time of year for Eddie, and so it figured his replies were not as in depth. What worried Steve, though, was that none of the questions he had asked in his letters got responded to – almost as if Eddie weren’t reading them. He tried to reason that it was because Eddie, since he developed weapons, was working hard on the war effort; but, Steve’s insecurities loved to point out that the distance had only come after he had confessed his feelings.

And then Bucky arrived with an envelope that clinked. Bewildered, Steve hurried to open it and rescue the letter from amidst the assembled coins. He carefully read over each word of the letter, and a bright smile worked its way onto his lips. “He wants me to buy myself a ticket for the Ella Fitzgerald concert,” the artist explained to his (rightfully) concerned friend. “Take myself to dinner somewhere fancy, too.”

“Good to know your fella is treating you right,” Bucky said, visibly relaxing. “Though he is a bit of a Sugar Daddy.”

At that phrase, Steve made an awful face. “Bucky Barnes, he is not my Sugar Daddy.”

The brunet arched an eyebrow. “He bought flowers for your ma; sent us both real fine scarves and mittens – plus some for Arnie; and, he is sending you to a posh concert and dinner. Seems an awful lot like a Sugar Daddy to me.”

With a furious blush, Steve continued reading the letter – not deigning to reply. He frowned at the news Eddie had been feeling unwell, and worse that Obie was becoming impatient. That surely spelled out trouble for Steve’s boyfriend. He would have to detour past the chapel to pray for Eddie, see if his ma could pull any angelic strings to help the man out. If anyone could, she could.

The afternoon of the concert, Steve dressed up in his blue shirt and black tie, plus a big greatcoat George had lent him for the evening. He even let Dinah style his hair, combing it into something a dandy might approve of, before Bucky drove him over to his first stop of the evening: Keen’s English Chop House. Steve was not entirely sure it was a good idea to eat someplace so fancy, but Eddie’s letter had insisted he go somewhere nice to eat. And, there was enough left over after getting the tickets that Arnie and Michael could come to dinner too – especially as the place was not kosher.

So, the young men found themselves inside the historic restaurant – known for being the first place to offer a la carte dining in the country. And, by the smell of things, it served some truly amazing food. Once they were seated, the artists scanned the menu while the other two men simply took in the scenery. “You better eat well, Stevie,” the brunet warned, “or I will write Edward to tell him that you were no good.”

“Yes, Father Barnes,” Steve drawled. “Don’t you worry. I’m planning on eating actual beef. Thinking the Roast Prime Ribs of Beef au Jus with some French fried potatoes.”

Arnie made a face at that. “French fried potatoes with roast beef? You are a strange one, Stevie.”

The pair squabbled fondly all through dinner, and Bucky was suitably impressed at just how much Steve managed to pack away in his tiny stomach. He not only polished off his own dinner, but the rest of Arnie’s schnitzel and an entire piece of old fashioned strawberry shortcake. When it came time to head to the club, Bucky nearly had to roll Steve back into the car, the artist had eaten so well. And boy did he look thrilled about it. “Buck, I don’t think I ever ate that much in my entire life.”

“I don’t think you have either, shortstop. I’ll be sure to tell Eddie you did a good job.” He would also need to have a talk with Eddie about how much he was spoiling the little artist… and how much Buck appreciated it. Steve needed the good memories, especially with the way things were going.

The concert itself was practically a religious experience for Steve and Bucky. They had heard beautiful music, certainly; going to the February House meant they kept company with some of the greats. But Ella Fitzgerald was something else entirely. Her voice was smoky whiskey on a summer evening, the rich evening darkness cloaking around your shoulders as the stars winked to life. Steve was pretty sure he sat through the entire thing with his jaw slack and eyes the size of dinner plates. Some of the songs even moved him to tears, something Arnie tried to tease him about on their way home. But Steve did not feel so much as an ounce of shame for crying over a beautiful thing.

That evening, while Bucky crawled into bed and immediately drifted off, Steve quickly sketched out his new ideas for the bar at the Carlyle. Then, smiling to himself, he drew a quick doodle of him and Edward dancing while Ella sang on the stage in the background. He included it with his letter.

> **January 4, 1942**
> 
> Dearest Eddie,
> 
> Tonight has been pure magic. The only way it could have been better is if you had been beside me. Pendragon and Mark ended up buying their own tickets to the show; when they heard I was going, they declared they could not miss the chance to go with. So, Franklin, Pendragon, Mark, and I all went to dinner before the show. I was just going to go to a good kosher place, but Franklin insisted I really live it up. He ended up picking the restaurant: Keen’s English Chop House. I never set foot in a place so fancy in all my life.
> 
> You would have been proud of me. I ate like a king, including having strawberry shortcake for dessert. Eddie, it was so delicious. I do not know how to communicate how good it was short of saying that I think angels may have been working in the kitchen. It was the most amazing thing I have ever had in my entire life, short of my ma’s apple pie. I also helped Pendragon finish his dinner, since apparently I took eating like a king a bit too literally.
> 
> And the concert!
> 
> She is definitely an angel. There is no other explanation for the sound of her voice. It was absolutely ethereal hearing her sing live. I maybe even cried a little, it was so beautiful. What was your favourite song she performed?
> 
> Honey, I literally cannot thank you enough. This entire evening has been so good. I just want to kiss you and thank you for every single moment. One day, we are going to do something fancy like this together. And at the end of the night, we will walk home arm in arm. Then curl up together, drifting off into dreams almost as sweet as our waking moments.
> 
> And your plans are beautiful. I accept. We will do that, maybe not after an Ella concert… But sometime. I would gladly watch all the fun Cary Grant movies with my best guy.
> 
> I am just sorry to hear that Obie is causing you trouble. Tomorrow I am going to head to the chapel and pray for you. I do not know how much God would be interested in listening to me, but maybe Ma can pull some strings. Gotta keep you safe somehow, handsome. But I believe in that big, wonderful brain of yours. You will figure a way out. You always do.
> 
> -Your Grant

Tony read the letter after what felt like an age. He spent six days trying to defuse and placate Obie. He really truly wished he could just fire Obadiah, but he couldn’t. He would need to explain it to the board. He read the letter stretched on his couch as he kept time to one of his decompress playlists - tapping his toes to the beat as he read. He smiled and grabbed his ice cream from the freezer, next was the chocolate sauce “Alright Friday, concert time.” So there he was, settled down on his couch with Pistachio Pistachio in hand, when the camera panned to the bar. Tony saw them in a second: Bucky damn Barnes, Steve Rogers, and who must be Mark and Pendragon. They were all so damn beautiful and alive. The camera focused mostly on Ella Fitzgerald and her magnetic presence. But in every panned shot Steve’s hair caught his eye so easily. Steve looked so rapt in moments and in others he was so animated looking at his friends. 

God, Steve was there because Tony paid for their dinner and ticket. He was so proud. And happy they were there with him. Tony scarfed down his ice cream trying to eat away the massive well of emotion in him. 

Steve had been so alive. He had lived so much beyond the archival footage, beyond being Captain America. And there was Steve in footage outside of all of that. Tony choked back a noise that was going to turn into a sob as he sniffed. He felt far from his couch listening to “Heart of Mine,” and curled around himself as he watched. 

It took five minutes of Tony staring at the blank screen before he came back to Friday setting up the diction program. “Yeah, letter time, thank you Friday.” Tony started before he cleared his throat.

> **Jan. 10**
> 
> Grant, 
> 
> Heart of mine. 
> 
> Both the song title and I am calling you that for this letter, I am so glad you enjoyed it. I got misty-eyed a few times during the concert. But that song sunk itself right in you know? I’d have moved right next to you. And nudged you. If it were a private corner I’d have gone for a fast little kiss. Just your cheek honey. I’d definitely have raided your dessert at the restaurant. And I am so glad you ate well. After the show, I was humming “Heart of Mine” for hours. I was tapping my steering wheel with it while I drove. After that it was “What’s the Matter with me?” and “I’ve got it bad, and that ain’t good.” And “I fell in love with a dream” was hitting just the right resonance with me that night. 
> 
> Might have been lonely for a certain spitfire that night you know? 
> 
> I’d probably have grabbed a record player and danced with you for as long as we could stand that night if I were along. Could just close the blinds and even just sway with you. Bet you just looked so lost in the music a few times. I’d love to see that in person you know? 
> 
> Save the Marathon for November or February when you start to need a good cheering up. We could curl up under that pile of blankets, and I guess Franklin would have to help me haul up a small projector and a couple of things I have. Make sure he and his family could watch a few things before we shoo them out and start the Cary-a-thon. I am cutting back on the liquor, but I think I’d be fine sharing some wine with you. 
> 
> As I said, I went driving and enjoyed some good steak. Jarvis was out with his card friends so I had the place to myself after. One of these days I’m going to try working in colour and we are going to regret it. I favour reds a lot. Red, Gold, blue and black. Which from what you’ve told me the reds are your problem colour - some blues too. Also, the amount of kissing I was thinking about between all the letters has to be around a hundred by now. I was just a bit preoccupied between all of that to add to that count. 
> 
> How is the prep for the big mural you’re doing in the bar? I am very curious and I want to see it badly. But, well, you still need to paint it. And if that’s us doing some swing I would be so happy to teach you that.
> 
> Thank you for the prayers and your thoughts sunshine. I don’t pray but you’re in my thoughts too. 
> 
> Yours, Edward.
> 
> PS: Everyone good at the February house?    
>    
> 

Tony wrote it out with a small sigh. He’d taken to at least doing his signature with the Conklin when Pepper brought things to sign, so at least it was getting used. But, he still wanted to use it to write Steve. But again, he wanted to make sure the letters were easier for him to read, so until Erksine had his way Tony was stuck writing in print. He just needed to live that long. And the only way to do that was to be useful to Obie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pyrone: This is one of my favourite chapters so far. That during our editing kept getting pushed further ahead. Until now. I was just so excited for Anna to finally read it. And then more people to read it
> 
> The chapter title is from Keane the song is from their Perfect Symmetry album.


	20. Worrisome Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sad hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad hours.
> 
> Also, we live!

> ##  **January 16, 1942**
> 
> Honey.
> 
> Love.
> 
> You cannot just call me that out of nothing. I made the most ungodly sound, and Franklin thought I was dying. Honestly, so did I. My heart just about beat itself out of my chest it got going so fast. Hope you will not mind that I kissed all over a page for you. Just imagine that is your face because that is exactly how many kisses I would have to give you if you ever said that to me in person.
> 
> The scene you paint is so pretty. I am sure we are going to have moments like that, someday. And, if nothing else, I will have some good daydreams in the meantime. Because I can picture it – the weight of you at my side and the way you would casually drape your arm across the back of my chair. The feel of your laughter against my ear, and the way your eyes would shine so bright. Of course, I can picture it so well it even snuck into one of my sketches for the bar. It will be painted in the back corner: you and me sitting watching Ella, with Franklin, Pendragon, and Mark at the table with us.
> 
> I seem to keep adding you to every mural I do. Maybe that will just have to be my signature. You and me, caring for each other so much if you only know where to look for it. Guess that officially makes you my muse. Which is why you get a ridiculous little sketch of you acting like my muse. I had to make some guesses about your build, but I figure you have been getting even more toned working with Maria. Something tells me you got real fine gams, babydoll. The kind that would make me stutter. I can only see so much in those photos in the handbook, but I have a strong feeling about it.
> 
> Franklin says I am not allowed to hum any of the songs from the concert - claims I would ruin them. He is probably right. I used to have a real swell singing voice - I was even a choirboy when I was younger - but scarlet fever when I was fifteen made me deaf in one ear. Honestly, I am probably lucky it did not end up worse.
> 
> Wine and a pile of blankets. You sure do want to spoil me, huh? Not that I would mind. I am bad at taking charity, because of how I was raised, but gifts to show how much you care… I think I can handle that. Especially if it means spending time with you. Nothing means so much to me as getting to just spend time with the people I love. I bet I could just sink into you for hours, barely noticing time slipping away.
> 
> And of course you would favor red. You just love to let everyone know you are there and so beautiful, right honey? I just wish I could see you in all your glory. I bet you look stunning wearing red, especially with your heritage. The art teacher I had for classical oil colors loved to ramble about how Italians make jewel tones look fabulous.
> 
> A hundred kisses sure sounds like a lot. At your current rate, we are just going to have to spend a couple of years just stealing all the kisses we can. First thing in the morning, just when we are waking up for the day. Over breakfast, every time you ask me to pass you something. Lunch, too, while one of us is cooking. Snuggled up together in one of your fancy bathtubs. I would have to keep time by kisses instead of hours on a clock.
> 
> Sounds perfect.
> 
> And February House has seen some changes. People moving in and out. Since the war broke out, things have been a bit … tense. Nobody wants to talk about it, but you can feel it boiling under the surface. Then again, that is true of everywhere. Especially with the draft looming over everyone. For whatever reason, it has made us create even more frenetically. Like we are all trying to get as much art out of our bodies, just in case.
> 
> Which is probably why you are also getting some of the sketches I did of Ella. I cannot seem to decide what angle to paint her at for the mural. Like if she should be the center, staring straight out over the bar. Or if she should be off center, singing out towards the corners. What do you think?
> 
> -Your Grant

—-

Tony had been struck by inspiration finally for later when Steve was able to read his normal writing without too many difficulties. So far he had a set of motion trackers on his arm and hand with a pressure sensor under a sheet of paper. It played with the idea that you could scan your writing and put it on a computer screen. It was just a matter of feeding a robotic arm the input to mimic his writing. Hence the pressure and motion sensors. He would be able to write Steve from anywhere, anytime. And look organic with pressure pressed into the paper.

Though, nothing was stopping him from printing with it. Just more small movements. Tony got pulled from his programming and tinkering by both the familiar clanging and Dum-E going to get the letter. “Yeah, okay now would be good for a break,” he muttered to himself as he looked at the mess of torn paper and nuts and bolts and wiring from messing with the pressure sensors. 

Tony cradled his shoulder a moment as he stood - it was still tender from that morning's beating. Maria had been having to correct him less and less, and it was becoming more drills rather than new movements. So that was something. But it also meant she tended to go a little harder on him.

Stopping at the edge of the table, Tony looked at the Grant folder he’d made after the Ty-proving-to-be-an-asshole thing. The lists and files of things he was going to show Grant and introduce him to the new world. His tour guide to the future. Then there was the folder of enquiries he had meant to get Friday to answer. Things he had yet to research but thought would interest his boyfriend. Things that felt a little hopeless once he knew who was on the other side of the mailbox.

His jaw clenched. Tony could not afford to think like that. Just because his man had an expiry date, it didn’t mean Tony couldn’t take him from the ship. Maybe he could try to grab Steve from the bridge of the Valkyrie. Rig something to take the ship down and get them out before it crashed. All he had to do was crack the code for time travel sooner rather than later.

It was a golden time for the two men, as Tony travelled for business and Steve worked on the Carlyle mural. Their letters were soft exchanges of affection mixed with anecdotes from their childhoods. Tony, for instance, learned that Steve actually spoke Gaelic, but he had such a terrible Brooklyn accent that it had made Sarah despair of him ever being fit for Ireland. And Steve got to hear about the first time Jarvis tried to teach Tony to cook. Genius though he may be, the brunet had still somehow managed to swap the sugar for salt, resulting in cookies that made Jarvis gag the moment he placed one in his mouth. The young man had been devastated when the Brit had immediately thrown all the cookies away, but it had become a point of amusement between the pair. Jarvis, sassy as ever, had carefully labelled all of the ingredient jars for “safety’s sake” from then on. 

And, of course, they went on a multitude of long-distance dates. 

Steve went to the zoo one afternoon, sketching the various animals and people he saw walking around. Tony took his camera with him to Paris, London, and Iceland. It had been tricky to manage photos that looked timeless enough to blend with a 1940s eye, especially given that Steve’s time was at war, but the engineer managed somehow. He had even twisted stories of his actual business meetings to better fit the events of World War II, which in turn led to him doing a great deal of reading about the time period. Tony had the feeling that, by the time Steve Rogers went into the ice, he would be an expert on the conflict and its historical impact. 

Throughout it all, Steve did his best to keep his boyfriend up to date on his artistic endeavours. He often sent sketches of pieces he was working on, including a rather detailed portrait of Louis Armstrong wailing on his trumpet that was set to greet visitors as they entered the bar. There was also an entire wall filled with dancing couples, pressed cheek to cheek as they moved to the imaginary music. True to form, Steve snuck Jarvis and Ana into the group of dancers. And he painted his own ma seated with Winifred and George at a table in the room. He was also sure to include the many amazing Black performers and artists he had seen in the clubs he and Buck had ventured to. The owner of the Carlyle had been quite fidgety when he had noticed, but Steve had explained that it simply could not be a true jazz mural without them. Plus, Steve thought to himself, jazz simply would not exist without Black people, so why shouldn’t they be featured? If he could have gotten away with it, the entire audience would be filled with the Black Americans who made Harlem what it was. 

Steve did not, however, let Tony see the corner of the bar where he had painted himself and his boyfriend. There was no fun in that, he figured since he would rather see the brunet react to that in person. All he mentioned was that when Tony saw it, he would have to look for the surprises Steve had left for him to find. 

Those early months in 1942 also saw the pair attending a plethora of movies. First was  _ All Through the Night _ , another Steve pick that got him in trouble. It featured one of the up-and-coming leading men of Hollywood, Humphry Bogart, playing a gambler who got caught up in trying to dismantle a Nazi conspiracy. The mention of Dachau made Bucky particularly grim for the rest of the day; word about the concentration camps had caused a terrible ripple of fear throughout their neighbourhood. Some Jewish families had even stopped going to the synagogue, just in case antisemitism began to boil over in the country once again. 

Tony’s next pick was a musical comedy called  _ The Fleet’s In _ . The zany antics of a sailor trying to win the heart of the cold “Countess” of the swing club in just four days was certainly entertaining fare. Steve’s cheeks hurt from laughing so much, and Tony couldn’t help feeling bad for the poor Countess when she found out her beloved had been bet to woo her. But, as things did at that time, everything worked out for the best. The sailor fell hard for his dame, and she ultimately forgave him. It was not lost on Tony the irony of his choice of film.

By the time the end of January rolled around, the mural at the Carlyle was nearly done. Steve managed to get a photo taken of the section behind the bar, where Ella was clearly singing with her entire soul. The blond had been so pleased with his work that he had told his boyfriend that it might even be his masterpiece. Of course, that probably had more to do with the fact it was the biggest piece he had ever done than the quality of it. Because, while it was very good, it lacked the same level of warmth and intimacy usually found in Steve’s work. He had captured the magic of the concert, certainly, but he knew his own feelings from the experience - those of intense longing and love - had no place in the setting. So, he had carefully crafted a piece without those things, leaving it a bit more empty than it otherwise would have been.

He was also able to do art for a magazine that had only just gotten off the ground:  _ Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine _ . The detective fiction story he was assigned was a bit gruesome, but some part of Steve relished the chance to draw something different. And the editors loved Steve’s stark use of colours so much that they invited him to do the cover for July as well. Arnie had to ultimately help the blond pick the right shade of red for his work, but it ended up turning out swell. Steve ended up sending Tony copies of both magazines when they were released. February also saw Steve choosing an Abbott and Costello film called  _ Ride ‘Em Cowboy _ , which he had chosen because Ella made her feature debut in the movie. He had been delighted to hear her sing again, even though it was nowhere near the same as experiencing the magic of her voice in person. While the movie was not particularly great, it was funny enough - something both men needed at that moment in their lives.

February was still brutal for Steve, especially when letters from Tony were just a little sparse. He understood the man had to keep up with his work, especially as Obie’s behaviour became even more suspect. But, it was still hard. Steve still missed him and worried about him. Sometimes he felt so helpless - unable to do anything to keep his boyfriend safe. So, all he could do was try to be cheerful in their letters, encouraging him as best the blond could from so far away.

And when March finally bloomed like a breath of fresh air, the Brooklynite had hopes that things would take a turn for the better. Until Arnie came to deliver some difficult news. After the redhead left, Steve sat down on the windowsill and stared blankly out the window for unfeeling hours. Then, unbending his body with a crack, he moved to grab a piece of paper.

> ##  **March 3, 1942**
> 
> Eddie,
> 
> I hope your trip to Vegas is going well. Is it as bright and amazing as everyone always says it is? Franklin always jokes about wanting to go there, but I am not sure I would like it much. What do you think: should I add it to the bucket list or not?
> 
> Today … Pendragon came to visit. I knew it was not good news, just looking at his face. He may be a charming piece of work, but he also wears his feelings on his shirtsleeve. I cannot remember the last time I saw him look so devastated, aside from when his grandmother passed a few years ago.
> 
> He got word that if he did not choose to enlist, he was likely to face the draft. So, he decided to throw his fortunes to the Navy. By the end of the year, he is going to be assigned to a ship and risking his life for the right to freedom. And Mark … He is just going to have to sit at home, hoping for the best. When he was little, Mark was born duck-footed so bad his toes pointed straight out to either side. So, the doctors broke his legs and he had to wear braces all through his childhood. Means he got an 4-F almost without the doctor blinking. I saw his legs once; they have some awful scarring on them. Mark and Pendragon only just moved in together two months ago, and now they are having to say goodbye.
> 
> My heart aches for them.
> 
> What if Pendragon does not come home? What if Mark has to go all his life, knowing he had love in his hands and it slipped away too soon? 
> 
> … What if you get drafted, and the same thing happens to us? I know you say you are safe, because of the weapon design work you do. But, I trust the government about as far as I can spit, and I have chronic dry mouth. I could see them drafting you just to have greater control over you - making you do whatever they wanted you to. It is selfish of me, I know, to be so worried about the possibility of you being drafted when I should be focused on Pendragon. But losing you is one of the scariest things I can think of. I have even had nightmares about it. Of you dying, alone and terrified, in some battlefield somewhere. It is becoming harder and harder to sleep, because I know what is waiting for me when I close my eyes.
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> I do my best to stay as positive as I can. But the very air seems changed ever since December. With the rationing starting and the draft and everything, people are scared. It is not even a specific fear - like when I get sick and am scared it will finally kill me - but instead a broad, nameless anxiety. It feels like everyone is choking on it, just trying to get a breath of fresh air somewhere in the chaos of it all. At least if it were something specific or concrete, people would know how to fight back. That is what we New Yorkers do best, after all. But since it is so difficult to pin down, everyone is just… angry and anxious. Been hearing a lot more screaming matches in the tenement. Seen more fights. Gotten in more fights.
> 
> Are things any better where you are? Will you be okay, honey?
> 
> -Grant

\---

Tony watched Maria come in with a briefcase in addition to her gym bag. Tony had a feeling there were changes coming. 

"I have been recruited by an agency. It doesn't pay half as well as you do. Nor does it have half the benefits. But it would let me eventually be the leader of a unit again. I am putting in my two weeks of notice. I can make some suggestions for you about how you can best practice. Who you can hire for security. Unless answering your phone calls would put me in direct danger, I will always answer. " 

"Which one? Which agency?" 

"Shield. It's to do with defence against potentially superhuman or alien threats."

"It was started by my aunt, so I’m familiar with it. She stepped down from the role, though. Does that make you want to change your mind?" Tony asked with a little grin.

"Nope. Let's get you warmed up. Sparring with Rhodey will help. I know a few boxers that could keep you in good form too," Maria kicked his ass for the next few hours while Tony already missed her.

Tony was seated in the living room while Maria threw three profiles on Tony’s screens. “As a heads up, you’ve already got a pretty good boxer in your employ. Mr. Hogan was up there in college and works as a driver. You’d have built-in backup, and he’d probably appreciate the extra money,” Maria explained tapping at her water bottle. “Otherwise it’s just regular trainers that you’d have to hire through official channels.” 

“Having a personal driver could seem like something I would have if I was drunk for extended amounts of time,” Tony muttered tapping at his chin while Maria raised an eyebrow.

“You really haven’t been, I mean you had some weird shit happen in December that I definitely kicked your ass for. But do your thing I guess?” Maria shrugged.

“So since you’re not going to be my employed trainer, are you going to ask Pepper out?” Tony grinned as he watched Maria scrunch her face. 

“I’m going to be in DC…” Maria crossed her arms. 

Tony was halfway ready to say, ‘Yeah and my boyfriend is in 1940’s Brooklyn try harder.’ But, he wouldn’t. He hadn’t mentioned his boyfriend at all, and she’d demand answers he didn’t want to give. “And I had to send a drone to my artist to get him some decent medicine. He lives in assfuck nowhere. You have your life at least twice as together as mine, you can do it.” 

“So he’s definitely your artist now, huh?” Maria smirked leaning forward on her seat. Tony laughed as he leaned back against his own chair. Well, so much for that plan.

“Yeah that happened, and it’s so complicated. But, right now, I am really happy with it,” Tony answered, sprawled out in his chair like a wet rag. Tony watched Maria try to parse him out, and, eventually, she shook her head. 

“So you’re going to write him again as a reward for surviving getting your ass kicked, aren’t you?” Maria predicted tilting her head. Tony watched Maria squint and then slowly get up from her chair. “I can arrange a couple of joint sessions with both of us training you if you go with Happy. It would give you a good transition for it. Just make sure to schedule in some firearms time, and you should be good,” Maria nodded making her way to the front door. “I’ve got some training courses to do, so I have to cut it short today. Have fun with your artist.” She waved and let Friday engage the door lock. 

Tony rested his feet on the footstool and pulled up Grant’s letter. Tony grabbed a tablet and started writing away. 

> ##  **March 12**
> 
> Grant,
> 
> Vegas is usually pretty great, I liked China and Japan when I was roaming them more. I like being on coasts more - being near the ocean instead of landlocked. But with the shows out there it is worth adding to the bucket list. I like gambling once in a while, only because probability is fun math when it’s dice. 
> 
> Not when it's people's lives.
> 
> Grant, St. Grant patron saint to those tired, scrappy, creative, good souls who are in over their heads. First of all, I am both sorry for your friends and for you. But you have to keep your head on your shoulders. 
> 
> I am not going anywhere. Darling, you have to trust that. I know it's going to be hard to trust anything right now. But I am doing my damndest to be okay. You have to put some faith in your friends too. They are skilled people who want to come home to you and their loved ones. It's going to be hard. 
> 
> Maria is applying for a new job because she's trained me to the best extent she can in her opinion. She's going to be out there as best she can. We are working on getting me someone who will keep me in fighting shape. But she did get the means to contact Pepper whether she knows it or not. I put Pepper's number as a reference for her resume. 
> 
> Besides that things are the same. Now isn't the time to quit making weapons. There's a driver I am thinking of hiring as a personal driver rather than just for the company. He used to be a boxer and Maria thinks he might be a good fit. 
> 
> Besides that. It's been tense. I still feel like Obie isn't as patient as he was. And I think it is safer for Maria to getaway now. There's tension everywhere Grant.
> 
> Is there anything you’re looking to use for your art or materials you want to try out? 
> 
> Take care of yourself, please.
> 
> Edward.

Tony sent his letter and walked up to see Jarvis, they wound up having a Bond Marathon while the rest of the day bled away. 

During the credits for  _ Goldfinger _ , Tony made an order for chalk pastels and stretched out on the couch. Jarvis nestled with his knit blankets as they watched Sean Connery, and they both eventually fell asleep with Tony dreaming of holding lithe, bony arms to him. He dreamed about long fingers stroking through his hair and being held like he was a precious thing. Of being someone  _ loved.  _


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday gifts

April bled into May with the continuing lack of usable evidence Tony could use against Stane. There were weapons and money moving around for sure, but such things in companies did that - they moved. He was pretty sure they were going to be explained as bugs in the system. Not even he was invulnerable to programming developing bugs.

On the bright side, he did not have to worry about how long things were going to take to get to Steve in terms of gifts. The chalk pastels he’d ordered for himself and Steve had arrived. Trying to capture Steve in colour led to some amusing debates of ‘Just how blue were Steve’s eyes?’ in some forums. And debates about just how correct was the colour in the Captain America posters. Tony had a few nights in between build projects where he went over the early letters and smiled. He would have to make up a cute nickname for Steve about his eyes. 

Some tutorials and reading lead to a picture that Tony wound up liking in the end. Steve smudged with vibrant colour holding a chalk pastel as he looked to be stepping back from a picture. Tony sketched the vibrant grin he pulled up from the Ella Fitzgerald concert and then had fun with the colours. The blues and greens with only a few hints of magenta served as an added surprise should Steve revisit the picture. Tony sealed the image and looked at the small box he’d gotten to hold the gifts. It was nothing much: copper wire in a couple of different gauges, needle nose pliers, a wire cutter, and lastly a pin vice to make twisting the wire easier. Tony wrote a small note that explained how to use the vice. 

For his own birthday, however, Tony wasn’t sure what to do still. He couldn’t get away with a low key event like his previous year. So, he paced his lab in thought as he waited for the sealer to dry. Tony walked the length of it and back five times before receiving a text. 

Demi: You doing anything for your birthday? Do you need any of us to vouch for anything? 

Tony grinned as the inspiration came together. 

> Tony: Yes. Yes, I am. 12 to 13 models on a yacht. Wine, a bunch of good food, and a movie night?
> 
> Demi: Sure. If you can get them all on, I don’t see why they’d say no. 

Waking up 24, not in a fight with your extremely long-distance boyfriend, and surrounded by a group of women piled on a couch nest was amazing. Tony looked around to find a few of them playing on their phones, and he spied Demi on the raised floor going into a yoga pose that he had absolutely no idea what the name of was. Tony watched the front of her t-shirt slide down as she moved into a headstand. The way the long braid of blonde hair hit the mat and how straight and tightly she held her core and legs was some kind of art. 

He got a text earlier from Pat of 'Happy Birthday.' Then she sent photos that were showing her helping weigh tiger cubs at a rescue reserve. It was so cute he wanted to burst.

“Your cereal selection sucks by the way,” Demi muttered, opening her eyes. Tony looked up and offered a small smile as he rested his arms on the back of the couch. 

“How am I to improve on it from the ocean, your highness?” Tony asked watching her hold the pose.

“Just an observation. There is more to life than what your doctor suggests. Also because I craved muesli, and I had to settle for Special K with a ton of fruit instead,” Demi answered with a frown as she took a deep inhale and pushed herself into a full handstand. 

Tony laughed as she did some kind of leg routine before lowering herself again. “Did I miss any other dietary requirements?” 

“You actually have everything else pretty covered. Jen appreciated the almond milk. And there was almost enough fruit to make up for the lack of muesli. Thank you,” Demi slowly moved out of the pose and kneeled on her mat. 

“Just what would you have added?” Tony asked, watching Demi sit. She crossed her arms and looked up at the ceiling. 

“Gooseberries, black currants, I think that would have had me covered,” Demi grinned as she watched Tony make a mental note. She moved off her mat and started rolling it. “How is your tech disaster friend?” 

“Boyfriend and good. We’re getting into summer, so the seasonal depression he gets is improving and he’s out working on murals,” Tony grinned “I’m making a bot so I can write letters by sort-of-hand from anywhere. I’ve also just realized I should probably keep the tech for myself. If I include a routine that in any way records what I’m writing, that could become a forgery bot pretty quick.” 

Tony watched Demi light up and pump her fist, then start chuckling. “I’m so glad to hear that. And do it, make the forgery bot you want it to be. Use it to make whoever is causing you trouble to leave. Make him fire himself,” Demi rubbed her hands together before tapping her fingertips in near maniacal glee. 

“I’m a bit worried about how readily you suggest the illegal options,” Tony said after a beat. 

“That’s because they are the most fun and lead to you seeing your guy sooner.” Demi scrunched her face before shoving her mat back inside a bag he’d hadn’t noticed before now. 

“Thing is he says he’d make a horrible prison bride, so we have to keep it legal, Dem,” Tony quips back watching her snort and fall a little forward a moment. 

“Alright then,” Demi muttered standing to her full 6 ft 3 and shoving her feet into her sandals. “It’s hilarious you two have already discussed that. I’m glad you’re happy.” 

“I am very happy about it.”

\---

Trying to decide on a gift for Edward was giving Steve all kinds of anxiety. He knew, without a doubt, that the engineer was wealthy. It showed in the way Eddie casually paid for some movie dates and the size of his garage, not to mention the 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster that was the man’s “hobby” car. Steve, on the other hand, tended to barely scrape by most months and didn’t have a lot of money to spend on gifts for his best guy. Which meant he had to get a bit more inventive.

Steve was out for one of his walks in the city when he decided to detour through Central Park. Sure, it was quite a ways out of his normal path, but it had become a special place after one of their long-distance dates. Whenever he missed Tony particularly fierce, he would go sit in the park and sketch; trying to capture the moments he wanted to share with the other man. 

The buzz of life that came with spring in the city drew a smile to Steve’s lips. Birds chittered at each other, and children yelled in delight as they played a game of chase. All of the trees had erupted with a beautiful mix of blossoms and leaves, painting the clear blue sky with splashes of colour. It was a relief, after the harshness of the winter, to see signs that life persevered. Coming up to his favourite bench, Steve collapsed on it with a little sigh. He gazed out over the plaza, admiring the way the light played across the water of the Pulitzer Fountain. When he had been a kid, Central Park had been an absolute disaster. A large shantytown had cropped up at one end of the green, and one of the meadows had been completely overrun by sheep. Monuments had been vandalized, benches broken, and weeds run rampant. Robert Moses sure had done a bang-up job in revitalizing the gardens and cleaning everything up. Now it was a beautiful place, though very much a work in progress as several parts of the park were still under construction.

Sitting up on the bench, Steve reached into his satchel and pulled out his sketchbook. He began by sketching the fountain, doing his best to capture the movement of the water and the dancing of the light. Then came the sketch of a mother and daughter: the baby’s hands tightly wrapped around the woman’s fingers as she practiced the motions of walking, each step wobbly and uncertain. Steve poured particular attention into the sense of motion as the little girl’s curls bounced with every little wobble. 

And then he saw something that made him nearly fall off the bench with laughter. A man sitting on the lip of the fountain was completely caught up in pontificating to his companion some nonsense about the economy and the uncouth younger generation. Had he been less caught up in himself, he might have noticed the large, finely feathered raven that had steadily been hopping closer and closer to him. And, while the man was insisting that “the youth of today” did not understand the value of hard work, the raven managed to get its beak around the chain attached to the very fine silver watch slipping out of the man’s pocket. With a few jerks of its head, the raven managed to snap the chain and danced a few steps away with its prize clanking along behind it. The bird was the picture of joy as its sparkling treasure swung down the side of the fountain, and Steve grinned as the raven spread its wings wide as though it was showing off its accomplishment to the world. Something in the impishness and cleverness of the bird reminded the blond of his boyfriend, which gave him a spark of an idea.

Adjusting his sketchpad on his lap, Steve quickly began to capture the bird on the page. He played a bit with the shape and scale of the image: making the chain longer so it could curl aesthetically around the bird, and he changed the engravings on the watch to better mimic what he knew of Edward’s aesthetic. And if he snuck his own initials into the drawing, well… who was going to tell? He then playfully wrote “is this you?” along the bottom of the page, mimicking the series of comics Edward had created in his attempts to figure out what Steve looked like. If nothing else, the drawing was a good start for a gift, especially as it was a combination of a special place and one of their inside jokes.

His second gift for Tony ended up taking a great deal more work. He had been hunting through a second-hand shop for a pair of pants that did not have worn out seams when he came across a leather jacket. Most of the material was worn out, but there were several sizable pieces that could be salvaged. Running his fingers over the thick material, Steve smiled to himself. He had always wanted a nice leather jacket; he always thought fellas looked so fine in them. And the thought of Edward in one was a particularly fond fantasy of his. Especially the ones where the brunet roared up in his hotrod wearing a leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses, ready to whisk his boyfriend off on some amazing adventure… Yeah, those were particularly good.

While Steve would not be able to give his fella a leather jacket – the kind of quality Eddie deserved was far outside of the blond’s budget – the thought did spark another idea. While the jacket he was holding was not suitable to be worn, there was enough good leather it could always be made into something else. The idea of buying a fresh pair of pants completely slipped from Steve’s mind as he carried the jacket up to the counter, passing over his meagre collection of coins in return. He would have to ask George if he had any sinew thread he could spare, as that would work best for sewing the fabric. And he could ask Dinah or Winifred to help him with the actual design. Oh! And he could ask Penny to help him tool designs into the leather; she was an art school friend of his with a particular gift when it came to that sort of thing.

Steve worked feverishly, using his downtime between shifts at the factory and doing little posters for the war effort as best he could. By the end of the week he had finished his project, and while it was not perfect, it was certainly a gift meant for Edward. Steve had transformed the leather jacket into a rather swell wallet. On the front it had decorations and designs lifted from Eddie’s doodles of his robots; Steve wanted Dum-E, Butterfingers, and U worked into it somehow. All of the patterns served to create a frame around a quote Steve had liked when he and Edward had been reading  _ The Hobbit  _ together: “There are no safe paths in this part of the world. Remember you are over the Edge of the Wild now, and in for all sorts of fun wherever you go.” Something about it reminded him of his boyfriend, of his wild sense of adventure and fun. It was perhaps a too practical gift, but something about it felt right.

Explaining his choice of gifts in a letter form, though, proved to be a great deal more difficult. Steve hemmed and hawed over the words, struggling to capture the rush he had felt in those moments of inspiration. Ultimately, he erred on the side of brevity, trying his best to avoid looking like a fool.

> My Darling Treasure,
> 
> Happy birthday. I love you so much more than I have the words for, but I hope you can feel it in the gifts I made for you.
> 
> The picture was a result of a trip to our park. While I was sketching, I noticed a raven stealing a chucklehead’s watch right out of his pocket. And something about that bird just reminded me of you. Maybe it was its love of shiny things, or maybe it was how excited it got over being so clever. Either way, I could have sworn you were there in the park with me. Old coot never even noticed the bird getting away with his watch. He deserved it, with what he was going on about.
> 
> The second is a wallet. I know you probably have a bunch of them, knowing how big a chunk of change you probably carry on the daily. But, I thought maybe this was a way you could keep a piece of me and your bots next to your heart without making a fuss. Plus, the jacket I salvaged it from was no use to anybody as it was, so this gave it a new life.
> 
> Have Jarvis give you a good, tight hug for me. And try to avoid doing anything too illegal on your birthday, honey. Remember, I cannot write to you if you get yourself tossed in the can.
> 
> I wish I could be there to celebrate with you. Love you.
> 
> -Grant

\---

Tony proclaimed his delight over the gifts in a quick note and stared a long time at the drawing of the raven. There was definitely something of him in it; the proud smartass in him that got in prank wars with Rhodey. And he was in awe of how Steve nailed his aesthetics in the designs and patterns on that watch. Tony wanted to keep it, wanted to make it permanent. But most of all, he wanted to show off how one of his favourite people recognized him in such a great way. Which sparked an idea. He could make the bird and the watch permanent, if he wanted to. Tony vaguely recalled some advice he’d chanced upon. If you want a tattoo wait six months, if you still want it in six months get it. Besides, a tattoo would be a great Christmas present to himself, plus maybe he could make that watch real.

Arriving home on the second of July gave Tony time to write his letter. And the time to send it on the third. Tony grinned, looking over at his gifts again. He was so excited for his boy to get them. And then he got distracted, staring at even more irrevocable proof it was Steve Rogers sending him birthday gifts as he looked at the photos tucked in the wallet: The devastatingly cute glance over the flowers, and the more candid shot where Tony could almost see the staring from him holding still. 

> “Hello, birthday darling. 
> 
> Grant, you just said the wire, but, well, I somehow doubted you had all of the tools of your own for this hobby. Forgive me if I’m wrong. Happy birthday. Also if you could apologize to Franklin about how heavy this is for me, I’d be grateful. I hope you’re doing well. Also, I love your gift, and I think someone pulled some strings to make sure I got it sooner so I could make sure to tell you more of my thoughts. 
> 
> The wallet is going to be with me every second I’m in California; I’m a touch worried I’d lose it if I took it somewhere. I adore that quote, and yes, yes that is me. How did you manage to find me in a bird of all places? Also, I want that as a real watch, but I can handle that. Let me know how your fireworks went, Sunshine. I am eager to see what you do with all of this. I am hoping this makes it to you on time. 
> 
> Love you sweetheart. 
> 
> Your Edward. 
> 
> Ps. The count is 150“ 

And there it was. It was on paper, and he’d said it out loud. Tony tucked the copies he made of photos Steve sent into the wallet and put that beside Ana’s stationery kit for the time being. 

Was that him? Tony chuckled as he looked over at the sketch of the raven and nodded to himself. Yeah, it was. He was a proud little shit disturber that liked shiny things; that was him. 

After a moment Tony grabbed the new wallet, tracing his fingers over the patterns and opening it to look at the photos again. The simple shot that Tony was pretty sure followed the Booth instructions but was cute. And then the piece de resistance. His little stubborn jerk holding out the flowers and having the nerve to look bashful. 

Yeah, he did love Steve fucking Rogers. Now, just how was he going to save him?

—-

When Bucky dropped the package in Steve’s lap, the blond nearly choked. “What the – Buck! You punk!” He kicked out at the man’s leg, missing entirely.

“Your fella sure doesn’t hold back on gifts,” the brunet griped. “I was sure my arms were ‘bout to fall off haulin’ that through the city. Shoulda made you go get it yourself.”

Steve pouted. “Didn’t mean you had to drop it on me like that,” he complained. “Coulda broke me, and then where would we be, huh?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky collapsed on the bed next to Steve and sprawled over as much of the surface as he could reach. “Dunno. Where would I be?” He playfully nuzzled Steve’s calf. “Not taking a certain punk to the hospital. He avoids it like the plague.”

“You’re a menace, Bucky Barnes. Why do I keep ya?” Reaching over, the artist gave his hair a bit of a tug. “Can’t believe your ma lets you out of the house lookin’ like you do. Your hair is so long it’s just about a rat’s nest.” He laughed as Bucky tried to swat at his hands. “Maybe you should beg one of your dames to cut your hair for ya.”

The brunet sighed. “Can’t. Ain’t got a dame right now. Seems like all they want right now are army fellas. Think they’re real heroic or something.”

Steve frowned. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

Shrugging, the man curled in close to Steve’s lean body. “It’s fine, Stevie. They’ll come back around.” It went without saying that Bucky knew, sooner or later, he would land in the military. And then the women would be interested in him for all the wrong reasons. The men tried to not talk too often about the draft or the war, just because it made Bucky mercurial. “So what did your boy get ya, anyway?”

Opening the package, Steve laughed as the mess of tools and wires poured out over his lap. “I told Eddie I wanted to work with new mediums. Particularly copper and stuff. Guess he had a bit of fun figurin’ out how to make that happen.” He held up a bundle of wire and gave it a wiggle. “Looks like I got somethin’ to keep me busy over the summer. Can try some of the techniques Penny was showing me a couple months ago.”

Bucky blinked up at the clear delight on the blond’s face. “You two are madder than a bucket of cats.” He hesitated. “It’s cute. I’m glad you’ve got a good fella. And that it worked out between ya.”

Expression softening into a smile, Steve played with the edges of the unopened letter. “Me too. He makes me so happy.”

“I can tell, Stevie. It’s a good thing.” Bucky gave his knee a little squeeze. “Just makes sure he takes good care of you. Alright?”

Steve hesitated, knowing what Bucky meant. “I am sure he’ll do his best, Buck. Just like you do.” He combed his fingers lightly through the brunet’s thick hair. With his free hand, he folded open the letter and slowly began to read the words. “Eddie apologizes for how heavy the package was, by the way.”

“Tell him he can apologize by taking me out to dinner,” Bucky muttered, eyes starting to drift closed as he melted under the blond’s hand.

And then Steve stopped short, his eyes going wide. There, written as plain as day, were the words he had hoped for but never expected. Usually his expressions of love were met with things like “ditto” or “I’m real fond of you too, honey.” But there it was. “Love you.” It was the first time Eddie had ever clearly reciprocated the feelings that had only blossomed more bright and fierce with each passing day. A sort of breathless giggle slipped past Steve’s lips even as a blush burned high on his cheeks. His fella loved him. He wanted to scream it for the entire world to hear, but settled for wiggling in place as best he could without disturbing the now sleeping Bucky. 

That love began to colour everything the pair did, mostly in the simplest of ways. 

For Tony, it mostly showed in working on project Chronos every spare moment. He had nicknamed the time travel project that after having been inspired by watching the Salvador Dali and Disney collaboration, “Destino.” Which led time yet another way Tony’s love bubbled over into every corner of his life: The List. The short film just one of the many items kept on The List to show Steve when he made it to the future - something of a pop-culture catch-up. It even bled into building a friendship with Happy while talking about classic cars. He couldn’t help thinking of how Steve would be in awe over each vehicle, and maybe even how much he’d get along with Happy. And almost without realizing it, Tony would talk about wanting to take a friend to places like the national parks, art museums, and concerts. 

Tony was going to be Steve’s tour guide to the future. 

And it had dawned on him one night while elbows deep in the Shelby Cobra. The safest place would be to grab Steve would be from the Valkyrie. But how?


	22. How Far We've Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murals.   
> Reminder  
> Tony- 2007  
> Steve- 1941

For Steve, his love bled into the way he pushed through every illness that came his way with a stubborn optimism that almost made Bucky laugh. He was more determined than ever to live because he had something to hope for - something to live for. It also reflected in the way Steve went on more adventures, just to be able to write to his boyfriend about them. Not to mention the countless sketches the blond sent along with the letters in an attempt to help Eddie feel that much closer to what was being described. He even would send along with occasional attempts at copper artwork, which were often dubious at best. (Steve enjoyed it immensely even if he was not the greatest at it.) To make up for the haphazard attempts, he would also mail the brunet copies of posters and mural sketches he did for the Public Works of Art Project. Steve’s personal favourite was one of Becca, who was dressed in the denim overalls and red scarf she wore when going to work as a riveter. On the poster she flexed and stared boldly at the viewer, showing off her strength, even as the words “we can do it” stood stark at the top of the page.

And Tony’s delight at realizing from this, that ‘Rosie the Riveter’ was a bold young Jewish woman who could bake like an angel, made him giggle for days. She shaped the apples into roses when she did her pies Steve had described.

But the surest sign of Steve’s love came in the mural he did at the end of the summer. It was one of the only murals to survive to the 21st century, aside from the jazz mural inside the Carlyle and the diner on Arthur Avenue. Tony would not find out about that love, though, until he had to return to New York for a mandatory board meeting in October 2008. He sat through the meeting with Obie and the rest of the board, agonizing over every minute spent wasting his time listening to them prattle on. It was everything he could do to not check his watch, knowing that his appointment with a local art historian was creeping nearer and nearer. 

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Tony was free. He hustled off to the manor to change into clothing more suited to walking around in the freezing 60-degree weather. (Tony was a California boy to the core.) Once wrapped up in a sweater, scarf, and peacoat, he climbed into the back of the car so Happy could drop him off at the appointed meeting place. When they finally arrived at Arthur Avenue, the brunet was out of the car before Happy could so much as shut off the car. “I’ll text you when I need a pickup,” Tony called, slamming the door shut before the man could reply.

The art historian was easy to recognize; Tony had been certain to thoroughly vet her before agreeing to let her show him around. She was petite with a thick cloud of tight curls swaying around her head in the gentle breeze. Her clothing was oversized, making her look even smaller than she already was, and her large, circle-framed glasses served to hide most of her face. But, a genuine enough smile graced her lips as she held out a small hand, “Dr. Stark, it’s a pleasure,” she said, her voice curling with a distinct Haitian lilt. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. While I like that, I like Tony better. May I have the permission to call you Serena?” Tony asked with a smile. 

Her shoulders shook with her laughter. “If you’d like to. I was just very surprised when the director asked me if I could give you a tour since you were interested in World War II-era murals. Definitely not what I expected of my internship.”

“Well, I have ones that I am looking for. I think they are going to make this far more interesting for you Serena,” Tony nodded as he took her hand and shook it.

“Your email said you were looking for two very specific murals. I was sure to read up on them for you, though admittedly they are not particularly well-documented ones.” Stealing her hand back, she wrapped it around the strap of her bag. “The first one is actually just down the street.” She started down the street at a steady scurry, clearly having adapted to life in New York. “What led to your interest in these particular murals?”

“My family is in possession of letters exchanged between the artist of these and someone important in his life. I… needed to see them for myself,” Tony explained as he followed her quickly. 

She nearly tripped. “Seriously?” Catching herself, she stopped ogling at him in order to keep walking. “Those kinds of records would be absolutely invaluable to our study of these murals. The only record we have of him is that his name was S. Rogers and what dates each painting was begun and completed.”

“There’s already been a lot documented about him, Serena. You’ll see in a moment if this is the one I think it is,” Tony explained taking a deep breath. “People forget he was an artist first.”

A frown flickered across her face. “Interesting.” As they turned the corner, she gestured to it. “This is admittedly one of my favourites of the time period. There is something so… joyful about it. About four years ago it was actually restored to its original glory, as best we could manage based on early photographs and documentation. We call it the Arthur Avenue Diner Mural.”

Tony felt his heart try to swell in his chest. For all that he joked about Jarvis’s heart because it was so big and he was so good. He was a little worried about his own for a moment. Because there were Jarvis and Ana. Rhodey, Maria, and a cast that Tony knew a strong amount of the people in. “Up in the corner is Steven Grant Rogers trying to steal a man’s pie” Tony explains managing to rein in his voice. Him. It was him. Tony felt his heart try to break out of his ribcage. 

And took a moment to shut his eyes and look over it again. This had to be worth a hundred kisses via letter for Steve. At least that. Rhodes looked stunning, joyous. There was joy in every figure. Comfort. Like he and Steve had booked the diner for their friends. “This was the one he did first and he’d gotten references for some of the people in the mural from the guy. Some of them are his friends, some are the friends of the guy who’s getting his pie stolen. I really can’t give the letters up. The rest of the stuff in them is really personal.” 

The moment the man’s identity clicked, her mouth fell open. “Captain Steve Rogers?” She could see it, in the bird bone frailty of the blond and the fierceness of his eyes. “You have letters from Steve Rogers about his art…” Turning to Tony, she hesitated. “Maybe you could provide historians with edited versions? Or put together an art exhibit. Since you feel like people have forgotten he was an artist before he was ever a hero. Those are absolute treasures.”

“He talks about another artist in his letters. I’m working on sorting through who that is but I would want to see if I could get his art into the public as well. He talks about how Bucky and this other friend would help him pick colours because he was colour blind.” Tony frowned a moment before the name of it occurred to him “Protanopia. He had trouble with reds and blue. I just need to look into it. I’m sorry I didn’t come in more prepared for this actually. “ Tony quickly snapped a couple of pictures of Serena’s backpack after he took one of them in front of the mural. He sent both to Demi who was getting ready for their dinner date. “That’s why this one is in Sepia tones”

“You are completely fine, Tony! I sprung the idea of the exhibit on you literally moments ago.” She turned to stare up at the painting once more, seeing it in a new light. “I think doing a joint exhibit featuring both of them would be amazing. It would be a way of recovering two artists lost to time.” Her lips twitched. “They would make an amazing dissertation subject.”

“I would go for it. I don’t know the actual name but you see the cute lighter haired one by the jukebox?” Tony pointed to Pendragon and his boyfriend by the jukebox. “That’s his friend that sculpts. They met in anatomy. I’ve been distracted or I would have more on him besides he’s a ginger.” 

A bright smile turned her lips. “That is adorable that he would include his friend in the mural. And I am sure you can find out more information about him. Information on Steve Rogers might be classified, but Becca Barnes Proctor will be at the Captain America event in Brooklyn in February. She would probably know who he is.” Serena hesitated. “Actually, you could probably just contact Mrs. Proctor directly for that kind of information. I bet she would talk to you.”

After they had finished looking at the mural, including Tony taking quite a few photos of it, Serena tugged on the end of her scarf. “So, the second mural is actually over in Brooklyn. Do you want to just take a cab or…?” She raised an eyebrow at him, unsure of how the billionaire preferred to travel. If it were up to her, she would just take public transit, because grad school budgets were tight.

“We could cab it, I have it covered. As a heads up, the other guy at the Jukebox is the guy's boyfriend. They met through a little letter service,” Tony explained as he scrolled back to the picture showing them. Scrolling past a couple of pictures of her he’d taken for Demi. “He’s a teacher at that point and Steve tells his friend that they are great for each other” 

Her eyes widened. “The ginger and the other guy were boyfriends?” She gave a little wiggle. “My specialty is queer art during World War II - it’s what I love. This confirms my theory that Steve Rogers was closer to the queer community than official reports would have people believe.” Serena slid into the cab while Tony held open the door, happily bouncing across the seat. “Today is the best day ever. Do you know what kind of breakthrough this is? What it will mean to the queer community?”

“A lot. I know. I only discovered these recently. I’m really unprepared for this one. He was vague about this mural in the letters. So where in Brooklyn? And mind if I have a few minutes alone with it before you get too close?” Tony asked looking over at Serena.

“It’s over in Cobble Hill. And I’m more than happy to give you as much time as you need.” She hesitated. “I will warn you, this one is considered to be in danger of being lost. The city has not allocated money for its restoration, so it is in rough shape. Probably because the lay of the block changed after the mural was completed, meaning it is tucked back into an alleyway. Most people have no idea it is even there.”

Tony winced as he felt his phone vibrate. Repeatedly. He peeked at his phone a moment to see Demi’s texts of “Do I stand a chance she is so pretty! And so cute”   
Demi: “... BRING HER TO ME”

“Oof. Okay. I am pretty sure I am going to put that money into helping it get restored, and because it’s Steve. Get it moved somewhere it’ll get the care. But alright, have you ever been to the Carlyle? “

She shot him a confused look. “The hotel? No.” Her eyes narrowed. “Dr. Stark, if you are trying to get me to a hotel room, I feel it necessary to inform you that I think dicks are disgusting.”

“I’m meeting a friend of mine who might be more to your taste there. She shares that same opinion,” Tony answered with a grin bringing up his folder of pics of the models and bringing up one of his favourite pictures of Demi. He showed the photo he took at the Beverly Hills hotel while Demi was getting a pedicure and reading a book on Aunt Peggy. “I ask because that is where the third mural of Steve’s is. Also because I’m probably going to want food and a drink after this” 

Serena’s eyes got caught on the volleyball player’s long, long legs before catching on the book she was reading. “Oh, I love that book! Agent Carter was so well researched.” Ducking her head, she played with one of the pins on her bag that read “Sapphic Babe.” “Um. I wouldn’t mind going. Especially to see the mural.” And if she was blushing, at least the beautiful sienna tone of her skin helped hide it. 

When the cab pulled up to the curb, Tony passed off an obscenely large bill before slipping out of the vehicle. Serena followed closely behind, but she stopped at the mouth of the alley. “If you go down there and around the corner to the left, you should see it.” The woman checked her phone for the time. “I’ll check on you in … fifteen minutes?”

Tony nodded momentarily wishing he’d brought the wallet with him, patting at where the wallet would have sat. “Yeah, that should do it.” Tony strode with his back straight and momentarily rubbed his fingers together as he walked. He took a sniff ignoring the alley smell and tried to brace himself. He was going into this blind. Besides the fact it was in disrepair, he had no idea what he was going to see as he turned left and stared. “Oh, honey.”

The mural had clearly been the victim of time. At one corner, all of the paint had flaked away, while in the bottom had traces of graffiti that someone had mostly cleaned off. But there was enough of the mural remaining that Tony could clearly make out the subject matter. It was an evening scene set in Central Park: a quiet lane stretching through the trees off into the distance. Standing in the middle of the pathway was a couple, both wrapped in heavy coats to protect them from the rain that could be seen streaking in the distance. To most, the pair would simply look like a man and woman embracing each other in the quiet of the evening. But Tony knew those figures - how Steve loved to render them. Especially in the size of the smaller figure’s hand as it rested on the taller man’s shoulder. What shook the brunet the most, though, was that Steve had painted them kissing in a way that was heartachingly tender.

And then Tony looked closer at the trees.

On one side, a tree bore an inscription that appeared to read “il mio tesoro.” The right side featured a tree in much worse repair, but he could just make out a heart that contained the initials “SGR + .” The second set of initials had been obscured by time, but Tony knew to the very marrow of his bones that it had probably once read “EK.” Steve had literally painted one of his favourite daydreams on the side of a building, loudly declaring his love for another man. It was only the cleverness of the artist (and his slight figure) that had kept him from being caught. 

Tony nearly fell right on his ass, he stumbled back leaning against the wall to take in the full picture. Them. It was them how Steve had described them when he had gone to Central Park. On a private rainy evening a soft moment where he’d steal a kiss. And Steve had gotten away with it. He wheezed out a breath as his knees gave. This mural was Steve shouting from the rooftops and Tony choked out a sob as he felt his eyes spillover.

He wanted to yell at whoever desecrated the mural but it would be a pointless endeavour. It would be pointless to hurt whoever had scraped the EK off the wall. It was him. And he’d waited this long to see it. It was Steve sharing this dream that was timeless and intimate. Tony pressed the heels of his hand against his eyes as he wept. If he wasn’t able to get Chronos to work he was going to have to let this go. He’d never see Steve.

Tony sat not even able to snap any pictures yet as he read the Italian he didn’t know Steve knew. He closed his fingers trying to focus on something else. Trying to pull himself together. He was so loved, and that was the crux of it. He was loved by a man the world was going to forget existed. He was loved by a small firecracker of an artist that painted one of the largest love letters he’d ever seen in his life. They were going to paint over this man in colours that he’d dreaded for years. Colours that reflected nothing of what he’d truly wanted. 

They didn’t reflect a home in the country. They didn’t reflect the, probably, seven dogs and twelve cats that would inhabit a large place they’d share. They reflected the fight in him, sure. But, they didn’t reflect his home. They would remember Captain America. They weren’t going to remember Steve. They wouldn’t know anything about Grant. And he wasn’t going to be able to shout back at him. Be able to shout about how much he loved this son of a bitch. This fucking ballsy man that was proclaiming his love on a piece of art that echoed to him now. Tony was still seated staring at the mural every moment wanting that hand on his shoulders. 

Tony breathed unsteadily imagining how Steve would probably, when he was like he was on the mural, would seat himself on him and wrap his arms around him. Steve would probably stroke at his hair just like he described a few times. Tony was bleary-eyed and still seated on the ground when Serena found him. “Can you keep something secret?”

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a packet of tissues and passed them to him. “If you need me to, I can.” Turning, she looked at the mural. “... It’s so sad to see it that way.”

“The initials under Steve’s are EK. They’re supposed to be EK. Because those are the only ones he knew,” Tony said while he dabbed at his eyes. He blew his nose and threw the tissue into an open dumpster. “I need a drink,” Tony let his shoulders slump and watched Serena look over the mural not knowing the story. 

After taking a couple of photos of the mural, Serena looked over at him. “Guess it’s a good thing the next stop is a bar,” she offered. “But… I did bring you something. Since you were interested in these murals, I did some digging.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a folder and held it out to him. “These are copies of photos we have of both murals. From different eras as art historians tried to keep track of them. Sorry, they’re not all the best quality, but…” She shrugged. “Technology.” 

“Thank you,” Tony nodded, finally managing a proper breath. “The research Steve did for the bar was fantastic. The concerts he listed making his way to see were amazing. I can’t wait to see them knowing what I do now,” Tony said with only a little tremble in his voice. 

“I’m sure the murals are stunning. Something tells me the Carlyle has no idea they’ve got a bar painted by Cap himself.” Moving slowly, she started for the alleyway’s exit. “I’m guessing you do want to preserve that mural and relocate it?”

“Yeah. Definitely. It needs somewhere safe. Somewhere it will be seen. I just need time to arrange it. And I don’t think the Carlyle does know. They’d either charge a lot more or be open more to let the people under 21 see the place like a restaurant or something,” Tony smiled as he moved to keep pace with Serena. 

She nodded slowly. “I will leave it at your discretion when to discuss that with them. You’re the one with the evidence, after all.” The woman flashed him a bit of a smile, understanding in her small way that he would perhaps not want anyone to know who the artist was for some time. Stopping on the street corner, she looked around. “We taking another cab to the bar?” 

“Yeah, I’m going to have to get this coat cleaned so we’re not walking anywhere for a bit,” Tony nodded making a quick call for a cab. “I’ll see about getting the front desk to send it out before we try heading into the bar.“ Tony gave a quick grin as the cab arrived a few minutes later. 

When they arrived at the hotel, Serena gaped up at it. She knew of the Carlyle, sure, but going inside with Tony Stark at her side was pretty much the last thing she ever thought would happen in her life. And then Tony’s coat was swept away for cleaning while her coat was simply checked. “Anybody ever tell you you’re hella rich?” she murmured under her breath. Clinging to her bag like a lifeline, she walked along with Tony into the bar.

“Frequently,” Tony answered, looking for the telltale braid Demi usually wore. He found her near a coat rack and tilted her head looking at Tony before she lowered her gaze a touch more. “Demi, this is Serena, Serena this is Demi. And welcome to Steve mural 3.” 

Serena blinked when a literal goddess turned towards them. And then Tony had the audacity to introduce them to one another. Tightening her grip on the strap of her bag, the art historian did her best to keep the tone of her voice level. “Hi. Hello.” She nodded slightly. “Nice to meet you, Serena.” She winced. “Demi. Nice to meet you, Demi.”

Tony watched Demi blink rapidly and momentarily sway. “That’s me yes, you’re the historian Tony’s been speaking to. It’s, it’s my pleasure to meet you. And Steve mural 3? Is this a Steve that I have theories about Tony?” Demi raised an eyebrow. Tony could tell right away Demi was more content to look at Serena and fought back a laugh. Here he was in the impossible position of loving a man he hadn't even found a method of speaking to and nearly everyone else around him was finding love. What the fuck was this shit?

“Yes. Want to know what helped lead to him getting all these murals?” Tony asked with his phone at the ready. Ready to show off the magazine covers he’d had Friday dig up. 

“Yes, you know I do since I am curious how this is relevant to the theory,” Demi answered firmly.

“He met a publisher for Harper’s Bazaar magazine at this place called the February House,” Tony started to explain. He had his posture ready to go. Left a pause in case it rung any bells.

Serena finally tore her gaze away from Demi in order to stare at Tony. “February House?” She was practically vibrating with excitement. “That meant he must’ve met George Oliver! Wait, did he know Carson McCullers? Peter Pears?” She drew in a slow inhale before breathing out, “Gypsy Rose Lee?”

Tony nodded fervently with each name, his grin growing. “Bucky Barnes went with him and Barnes was tripping over his own feet practically over meeting her,” Tony explained in a way finally getting to share a story he’d been bursting over for years.

“If Steve Rogers was not at least 50% gay, I will eat a ghost pepper,” Serena said firmly. “I bet he was completely gay, but the whole Peggy situation makes things complicated. But still.”

Tony was pretty certain Demi was about ready to explode in heart-shaped confetti.   
“I think her picture was part of a coverup actually. It was so deliberately placed in the frame and given so much emphasis. And with Steve’s Murals and his life in Brooklyn so skimmed over. This is the first time I’m hearing about any kind of mural or artwork Steve did,” Demi added in.

Nibbling her bottom lip, Serena gazed up at the blond through her eyelashes. “Tony introduced me to two of Steve’s murals earlier today. If you ever have the time, I would be glad to show them to you too. But… apparently, this bar features a mural by him too.” She finally really looked around, noticing how the mural wrapped over literally every single wall. “Oh my… Tony. This is … The entire thing was him?”

“Took the better part of three months. I think he’s hiding out behind you watching Ella Fitzgerald.” Tony explained watching Demi frown before tilting her head, then shifting her entire body. 

Tony smiled a little to himself looking over at Steve again. And then spied himself again. While this wasn’t the exact intimacy of the kiss in the park. The literal love letter on a wall. There they were, leaned in close Tony clearly more focused on watching Steve since he had seen Ella Fitzgerald and the setlist of this tour. Tony smiled to himself a moment before he watched Serena and Demi move to look closer. 

“You know,” Serena said slowly, “the guy next to him looks a lot like you. Any relation?” Never mind the fact they both had the same strange facial hair. She shot Demi a befuddled look.

Demi nodded before shooting Tony a quizzical look.

“Probably. The letters were super hidden in the Manhattan house and I was only looking at some of that stuff recently. How about we get that food going?” Tony smiled as the server thankfully approached them. 

Tony initially had the impulse to get a bottle and leave it at the table but he didn’t. They ate and Tony could feel himself further settle down. He didn’t want to have any kind of breakdown in front of them. They didn’t need to see him break down further than Serena had earlier. 

Tony watched the pair of them exchange numbers and Demi gave her a drive home while Tony sat in the cab alone. He wrote on the tablet on the way to the hotel since he didn’t feel quite ready to even attempt to spend the night in the Manhattan house. He didn’t put the date on any of the letters. He’d have to wait a while before he sent this. But it was the only way he would be able to explain not looking for Bucky right away. Why he wouldn’t look for scrappy Hurricane Rogers. 

He wrote and stayed in for the rest of the night. The nightlife wasn’t calling out to him. It was maybe a glass of Wine with his late-night snack. Tony attended the meetings only a little tired. He presented everything he had planned. He avoided Obie. Tony made his way back to the second mural alone. 

There was one more day of meetings and he intended to go straight home after them. Tony stared at the faded mural and finally took some pictures of his own. “Guess I’m really late aren’t I?” Tony asked the mural. He sighed and brought up his own hand where Steve Rogers in the painting was holding his. It wasn’t as if he were the Doctor and could pluck up Steve for an adventure. “You’d either talk to me about this one or you’d just talk and we’d go to Central Park and try to recreate it wouldn’t we?” Tony sighed as he strode up to the mural and looked up at the tree again. Tony traced his own initials against the wall with his fingertip. Tony drove back to the hotel and checked in with Rhodey.

Back to California and working through the month. Tony thought through how best to help keep them both busy. How he’d try yet another approach to figure out how he would best stumble at whatever the hell Obie was doing. It wasn’t his job to help Steve through his seasonal depression. But if he didn’t at least offer methods of coping, it wouldn’t sit well with him. Dates and maybe a commission or two were the fastest solutions he could think of to help keep him busy.

Getting knit caps to match the scarves was easy for his gift for the guys. It was something he could do. He gets a call and text in December from Pepper reminding him that yes, he did win The Apogee award, Pepper’s already got it booked. Tony attended Rhodey’s newest promotion and let them get soused. He spent most of Hell week in a daze of insomnia and groggy thoughts. How he could get some posthumous revenge if it came to that. How Obie probably sold his parents out.

“How best can I make sure Obie gets nothing in a will, Jarvis?” Tony asked in December with screens surrounding him as Jarvis watched the Dr. Who Christmas special. He’d managed to leave the Christmas gift unopened from Steve until after they ate.

“Name specific people who will receive your things do not divide anything among your board. Talk to my lawyer and see if they can get you assistance with the corporate part of it,” Jarvis mused as Tony looked over multiverse theory. 

“Shame I probably can’t say, if I die and am not back in six months it is Obadiah’s fault,” Tony muttered. Tony smiled as he earned a snort from Jarvis. 

“Probably not. But I would know if it isn’t because of your project,” Jarvis gestured at Tony’s math and research then glanced back at him. “I’m a little surprised you aren’t a touch further in that.”

“It’s because I can’t just hop in any old day and grab him. I need to figure out how to set Chronos for a certain day and place,” Tony said, then wiped at his face then looked at the screen. “Because out of all of time and space I get a guy with a specific expiry date that is super important.” 

“Then I wish you luck,” Jarvis smiled then chuckled. “Perhaps he’ll end up like Jack, fixed point and all.” 

“I have no idea if that would even work. But you’re seriously okay with me researching time travel while we’re watching the Doctor Who Christmas special?” Tony chuckled a little. He rubbed at the bracelet that sat just under the cuff of his hoodie sleeve.

“If it means you’re not drinking and at some point, I will meet your charming man from the forties. I don’t see any reason for you to stop. I’m certain you are looking into potential consequences already. So why should it bother me?” Jarvis raised his eyebrows waiting for some kind of answer as Tony relaxed. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you approve of anyone I had ever dated before,” Tony let out a short soft laugh, “He likes you too. Believe it or not, he’s never had a meet the parents’ situation. Grant lost his own parents pretty young so I guess I dodged that one. So he asks about you sometimes,” Tony explained draping his arms over the couch arm and watching Jarvis settle back with the episode done. 

“I worry more about you than myself Tony. I can handle myself just fine. Grant brings out the things in you I had always known. It makes me happy to see you happy,” Jarvis explained as he set his popcorn bowl to one side. “So what did you end up sending him?” 

“Hats for him and his friends. To go with the mitts and scarves I got them the last couple of Christmases. I have no idea what I am sending them next year since the thing is a bit small to send a coat through. And socks would be so shitty,” Tony answered as he watched Jarvis stretch out. 

“Blankets perhaps, or are they going to be part of the war effort?” Jarvis asked, gathering his dishes to the kitchen. 

“Part of the effort, one of them is going to the Navy. Or actually, I think he is part of it by now. Maybe coffee? I just worry something weird would happen to it.” Tony slowly rolled himself off the couch not putting any weight against his shoulder, then moved to follow and help. 

“Well as long as it would be of use, but just how do you think it would be of help to them in the alley,” Jarvis mused as he started rinsing off the dishes. Tony loaded the dishwasher in a slight daze and nodded at the reminder. Tony thought of the reminder now on his shoulder and still healing. 

“We’ll figure that out when we get there. One of his friends already knows something is up, so hopefully, it’ll be okay.” Tony smiled trying not to imagine not being able to reach Steve for far too long. Not during the war. While Steve said he’d be a horrible prison wife, Tony is pretty sure he is not fucking made to be a war bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And why yes the Doctor Who special that year did have Jack Harkness.


End file.
